


Full of Grace

by DreamingPagan



Series: Graced [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Ao3 won't let me tag just Bedlam, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Hurting followed by reunions and cuddles, I blame Bean, M/M, Miranda Barlow Appreciation, Multi, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Non-Graphic Violence, Pain, Period-Typical Homophobia, Torture, and it definitely deserves its own tag, this was their horrifying brainchild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-10-10 02:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10426860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/pseuds/DreamingPagan
Summary: They are taking them. The thought penetrates Miranda’s mind - cuts through the haze and the panic and the horror that she feels at the sight of James’ limp form being carried out the door, his bare feet dragging, eyes closed, blood still welling from the scrapes he’s received during his short-lived bid for freedom. They are taking Thomas and James away from her.Or: Alfred orders both Thomas and James to be taken to Bedlam. Miranda is left to rescue them with the aid of Admiral Hennessey.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Theonenamedafterahat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theonenamedafterahat/gifts).



> @bean-about-townn - I could not possibly have done this without you. Thank you for the initial idea, thank you for bouncing things back and forth with me, for beta-ing, for cheerleading, for keeping me from curling up in a ball to weep instead of writing when I had trouble doing this to characters I adore, and for being as meticulously obsessed with detail as I am!

The bedroom door breaks before any of them can do a thing.

Miranda is on her feet in a second, her hands moving toward Thomas, toward James, toward the robe that hangs on a chair that is overturned before she can even complete the motion. There is no warning - between one moment and the next, there is noise, commotion coming from seemingly every angle. There is the sound of scuffling, and James yelling, and someone else cursing as fists impact with flesh. 

“James!” Thomas shouts, as hands land on him. “James, don’t -! Damn it, get your hands off of him! James - it’s alright, they’re here for me -” 

“Our orders are to arrest you both.” The leader’s voice sounds contemptuous, his gaze sweeping over Thomas and James both - over James’ bare chest and Thomas’ barely-covered form, his legs sticking out below the shirt he wore to bed. James swears, the foulest oath Miranda has ever heard coming from his lips, and he jerks one arm free, using it to punch someone squarely on the jaw. 

“Thomas - run, get the hell out of -!” James starts, and Miranda turns to him. She can hardly even tell who is here - who is shoving her out of the way, heading straight for her men, manhandling Thomas and shouting as James explodes out of their grasp, hair a wild tangle that gets into his face as he attempts to fight his way free, his naked arms making it difficult for their captors to keep hold of him. 

“By your father’s orders -” one of the men starts to say, and Miranda feels her heart seize. She freezes, turning toward the soldier, not hearing the rest of what they have to say. It doesn’t matter - she can guess. James swears and bites one of the men, and then there is more shouting.

“James - James please -” Thomas is begging, the tone of his voice entirely unfamiliar - desperate, and she looks to find that one of the men has a gun trained on James’ head. “James, you must stop fighting them -” 

“James.” Her voice cuts across the chaos, low, and desperate, and catches her lover’s attention. “ _Please_.” He looks at her, terror and fury and desperation in his gaze, and she reaches out. “Please,” she repeats, and he turns his head, sees the gun pointed at it. “James, you can’t-” she starts, and then one of the men is reaching forward, a cloth in his hand, and the sharp stink of laudanum reaches her nose. 

“No!” Thomas shouts, lunging toward them, and James turns again, startled, eyes trained on his lover. He starts to struggle once again, starts to move - and then the cloth is over his face and he’s struggling harder, wrists caught between two men while a third wraps an arm around his neck, holding the cloth over his face with the other hand. Thomas is still struggling desperately to reach him, cursing and sobbing, and Miranda cannot breathe herself, she cannot move, cannot do anything as James’ movements become sluggish, as he begins to slump toward the ground and is caught. 

“By order of Lord Alfred Hamilton, you are both to be remanded to the custody of Bethlem Royal Hospital,” the frazzled-looking leader says. “Fucking hell. Take them away!” 

“Bethlem?!” The croak comes from Thomas. His blue eyes are wide, his hair in disarray, night shirt hanging off of one shoulder. “Do I look insane to you? Stop this immediately! I demand to see -”

“If it were up to me,” the man in charge says, “the pair of you would be taken out and hanged immediately. Be grateful Lord Hamilton’s given us our orders and paid us well in advance.” 

They are taking them. The thought penetrates Miranda’s mind - cuts through the haze and the panic and the horror that she feels at the sight of James’ limp form being carried out the door, his bare feet dragging, eyes closed, blood still welling from the scrapes he’s received during his short-lived bid for freedom. They are taking Thomas and James away from her - Alfred is taking them away, and she cannot -

“No!” The word comes from Thomas, sharp with fear, and it brings her up short as she reaches toward the nearest of Alfred’s men. She stops, looking at her husband, who shakes his head. 

“I’ll - I’ll see you soon,” he starts, his voice thin and higher than normal. “It’s not -”

“Stop talking!” The man holding Thomas shoves him roughly, and Miranda feels fury boil up within her. That anyone would dare treat her husband thus - that they would fucking  _ dare _ -!

"He is still your employer’s heir!” she reminds them sharply, and the leader turns to her. 

“He’s a fucking sodomite,” he sneers. “And he’s no lord of anything anymore - nor will you be a lady by the time the Earl is finished, I should think. You’re to be out of this house by midnight. Pack your things, your ladyship.” 

He turns. 

“Move! We’re to be there by nine o’clock.” 

“Miranda - Miranda tell -” Thomas starts to say, and then there’s a crack, and a cry, and they’re pushing her husband out of the door, his head hanging down and a red mark growing on his cheek as they take him away, his hands bound behind him. Miranda waits until they’re out of her room - until she is alone - and then she sinks to the floor, shaking, only just now registering that she is wearing nothing more than her shift, her breathing coming short and sharp and fast until the tears begin to well in her eyes. 

*******************************

He is not used to being cold.

It’s the first thought that crosses Thomas’ mind, as he is loaded into a carriage, still not wearing any breeches. He shivers and shakes the entire way to Bethlem, and feels every bump of the carriage. James still has not woken, and he cannot reach out to his lover - not to shake him or to see to the bleeding cuts on his torso, not to run a hand through his hair or to kiss him or to simply huddle next to him to keep him warm, trussed as they both are. He’s frightened - frozen stiff with the fear as much as the cold, but the fear is not for himself, and that, he thinks, is a small mercy. He cannot focus on terror at his own fate when James lies, still out cold across from him, facing that same fate, and dear God, what has either of them done to deserve this? Has his father gone mad? Has the British court system, that it would grant the writ of attainder for this atrocity? Newgate, he might have understood. He knows that what is between him and James is not something that is understood by the outside world - that there are laws against it, but he has never expected to fall afoul of them, not in truth, protected as he has been by his father’s title and wealth and the simple fact that such laws are rarely enforced, at least until recently. But Bethlem -! He cannot suppress the shudder of horror that travels through him at the thought. Bethlem is for the mad. He’s heard it whispered about himself, of course, but as a joke. He may be many things, but he is not -

The carriage jolts to a stop, and Thomas tilts forward with a gasp, landing against James. He does not attempt to right himself.

“James,” he whispers urgently. “James - if you can hear me, wake up. James, you wake up right now -!” 

The door opens, and there’s a grunt and a huff from the man standing by it. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, and reaches forward, taking hold of Thomas’ arm. “Come on - out of the carriage. Get on your feet - come on.” 

“James - James you have to wake up. James!” He’s being pulled, and he allows it, not wanting to give any of them an excuse to hurt James since it is becoming clearer and clearer that they cannot actually harm him overmuch beyond a few bruises and the words they’ve been slinging at both him and James since they were taken. They won’t - surely, they won’t, but if they hurt James it will be the same as if they had done it to Thomas, and he refuses to give them a reason. He is escorted none too gently into the building, past the two horrifying statues on the entryway, past the forbidding doors, and then they are in hell, he and James together.

The next hour is a nightmare. He’s stripped - his nightshirt taken from him, his body inspected for blemishes or sores, and then they force him to bathe. There is nothing in the way of privacy - nothing in the way of respect, or dignity, or decency, and he shivers and shakes through the entire process, his skin forming goose flesh from the cold and from the weight of strange eyes looking at him as though he were no more than a horse on display at a fair. He emerges from the water and is handed clothing rougher than any he has ever worn, the fibers only coarsely woven together, the shirt ill-fitting and the pants too short and the shoes best not discussed at all. He loses track of James entirely during the process, much though he tries to keep an eye on his lover’s still slumped form. When he is escorted back through -

“No!” The cry escapes his lips as he spots James and, more importantly, spots the scissors in the orderly’s hand. There is already a hank of James’ beautiful red hair lying on the floor, and the rest looks as though it’s about to follow. “How dare you - get away from him!” The orderly shakes his head, and Thomas strains against the hands on his arms, thrashing. “Leave him alone!” he begs, but the scissors continue their grim work, the sound of them worse in that small room than any other Thomas can imagine. 

“Don’t -” The rest of James’ red locks fall to the floor, and Thomas lets out a keening sound. 

“James,” he cries. “James - wake up. God damn it, get off me!” He tries to get to his lover, and there must be something about his desperation that stirs James back to consciousness, because his eyelids start to flutter, his face twitching minutely. Thomas makes an almighty effort, and breaks free at last, going scrambling across the floor toward James, feet still bare as they have not given him time to put on the hideous excuses for shoes they’ve given him. He reaches out to touch his lover’s face.

“James, come on, please -” he pleads, and then the hands are on him again, clamping down this time. 

“T-Thomas,” James slurs, his eyes starting to open. “What -?” 

Someone curses. 

“Finish up. Quickly!” 

“He’s still -” 

“Did you see Lord Hamilton’s men when they brought them in? They said it was that one that did most of the damage. Hurry it up.” The hands lift Thomas to his feet again, ripping him away from James a second time, and he struggles.

“No,” he begs. “No - please -!” The man behind James brings out a razor, and Thomas cannot suppress a sob. James is waking now, more alert with every second, and Thomas can see the moment that he becomes aware of what is being done to him. He can see the shock, and the horror flit through James’ eyes, and then the anger as he sees his own hair littering the floor. He jerks in place, moving the chair he’s been chained to. 

“What the -?” he starts, and then two more men move forward, holding him in place as he attempts to jerk his head out of the way of the razor. Thomas is weeping now, unable to force himself to even speak as the razor scrapes over James’ head, leaving behind only a vaguely red fuzz despite James’ curses and the sound of his labored breathing. James’ hands are clenching and unclenching in the chair, moving about as if to search for something to grab hold of, his green eyes wide as he tries to control his panic.

“James!” he calls, and sees his lover’s eyes flit to him. “James - it’s alright, I’m here, I’m -” He can’t continue, not in the face of what they’re doing to the man he loves, and he stops, only barely suppressing a sob. “Jesus,” he whispers, and sees the horror in James’ eyes at the sight of him.

“Thomas,” he croaks, and Thomas feels his heart break at the sound. 

“Should we try for the beard?” someone asks, and James turns his attention back to the orderlies, letting out what can only be described as a snarl, a sound low in his throat that is more animal than man. 

“You try it - fucking try it and I’ll kill every goddamn one of you,” he promises, and one of the orderlies steps back, fear flashing across his face. 

“Do it,” the other one says, and Thomas feels his heart stop. “I’m not having lice in the wards because this one won’t hold still.” He leans toward James, who looks as though he might spit in it. “You try anything,” he says, “and I’ll make sure your pretty lordling gets rougher treatment than this.” James’ eyes meet Thomas’s, and Thomas shakes his head vehemently.

“No!” he orders. “Don’t let them. James - don’t let -”

The hands on his arms pull at him, unyielding as steel against. 

“Don’t let them do it!” he shouts. “Get the hell away from him, you disgusting bastards! Do you hear me?! You leave him alone -” 

The air leaves his lungs all at once, driven out by the fist that’s just landed in his stomach.

“That’s enough out of you,” one of the orderlies snarls. “Shave the other one. We’ll do this one in his cell.” 

At this, James begins to struggle again. 

“Get the fuck away from me - Thomas!” 

They’re dragging him backward, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it - they’re too strong, and for the first time Thomas curses the fact that he is not a fighting man, not like James, who would have thrown these men off of him by now. He curses them all the way to the cell they bring him to, and continues to curse as they bring out the scissors and begin to wreak destruction upon his own head, the blond strands falling to the ground and into his face, the razor creasing his skin once or twice as they get closer to his scalp, and he weeps, not for his lost looks but for the whole mess that he finds himself in - for the pain he has wrought upon his lover, upon his wife, for the ruin of all their lives, and when they are done, when they release him and back out of the cell, shutting it behind them, he sinks to the floor, shaking from the cold and the shock and the horror and runs a hand over his newly-shorn head, already missing the feeling of hair running past his fingers, and sobs, one leg pulled up against himself, the shoes forgotten in a corner of his cell. He does not keep track of the time - he cannot, here, and he continues to cry until he hears a noise in the cell next door.

“Thomas?” James’ voice carries to him, and he sits up. “Thomas, I’m -” He hears James’ attempt to keep himself together - hears his lover’s voice catch. “I’m here,” he manages at last. “Are you -” He stops, and Thomas feels his heart twist within him. He cannot answer - cannot speak, and James seems to take the silence as a kind of condemnation. 

“I’m sorry,” James starts. “I should have found a way to protect you. Miranda tried to warn me and I didn’t -”

Thomas moves towards the door, slowly, still hurting from the rough handling he’s received, wincing at the feeling of blood drying on his face as he becomes conscious of it. 

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice a croak. “It’s -” He swallows. This is not alright. There is no part of this that is in any way alright, but he must pretend, for James’ sake. He cannot allow his lover to blame himself for this. “This wasn’t your fault. I’m fine,” he lies, and he hears the intake of breath on James’ side. 

“Bullshit,” his lover says, and he cannot help the laugh that works its way out of him, unexpected and wildly out of place. He hears an answering sound echo from the other cell. 

“You’re right,” he admits, and hears James’ exhale shakily. 

“Christ, Thomas,” James says. “Did they -” He stops, and when he speaks again, his voice sounds like he’s trying very hard to be cheerful. “I look like a fucking egg, how about you?”

“Balder than my cousin’s newest infant,” Thomas answers, and hears James chuckle properly. He counts the sound a victory - takes comfort in it even as he huddles tighter. He is so cold - so very cold, and he can only imagine that James is in much the same condition. The thought warms him, anger moving through him. That they should have the bloody nerve -

“Thomas?” James’ voice echoes again, snapping him from his thoughts. 

“Still here,” he answers, and he can practically hear James lifting one eyebrow.

“If you find a way to not be, make sure you tell me,” he answers, and if he hadn’t been in love with him already, Thomas would have been at that very moment.

“I’ll start negotiations with the rats immediately.” 

James laughs again, and then there is silence again for a moment.

“James?” he calls, finally. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I’m sorry about your hair. I’m -” 

“Thomas, stop.” The order comes, abnormally sharp, and Thomas stops, the words halting on his tongue. “Just -” James starts, and Thomas can picture him, can picture the moment he goes to run a hand through hair that’s no longer there, pictures the sigh that follows and the hand falling back against James’ side. 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” James says finally. “You’re not to blame, although I’ll thank you not to laugh when we do lay eyes on one another again.” 

“You think we will, then?” he asks, and the silence that answers him is horrible. He lays his head against the wall, closes his eyes. He does not want to contemplate the answer. He cannot -

“It won’t take Miranda more than a month.” The quiet voice answers him, and his eyes flutter open again. “She’ll come, and if she doesn’t -” 

“If she doesn’t, then we’ll find our own way out,” Thomas promises. 

“A month. I’d bet you -” James seems to take a moment to look around him. “I’ll bet you whatever you’re using to bribe the rats. We’ll be home again inside a month.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* I'm sorry! I promise to fix what I have just done in approximately.... a few chapters. Won't take long. You can blame @bean-about-townn for this - it is their hellspawn (which I picked up and had to write because apparently I am every bit as evil). I promise things will turn out alright! As a reminder - I write better when I get comments and kudos, friends! Positive feedback is one hell of a drug.
> 
> There is now art for this chapter! Behold! 
> 
> http://weillschmidtdoodles.tumblr.com/post/159165420577/i-gotta-say-that-the-black-sails-fandom-is-one-of


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. I said I was not going to do this, but I'm doing it anyway, because today? Today has been full of frustration and I have soooo earned something good in it, and this is that. Well - I say good. I mean have some more angst so that we can all find an excuse to have another good cry because we could all use it just about now. Cynthia - I'm sorry. Forgive me anyway?

 It is not noon yet when Miranda reaches the Admiral’s home.

She is running out of time. She is conscious of it in the back of her head. She must, she knows, be needed back at her townhouse. There is the packing to oversee - her things, and as many of Thomas’s as she can lay her hands on, as well as any traces of James still left there. She will need to speak to the man she has put in charge of finding her a place to stay with what funds she possesses in her own right. She will need to hire a carriage, or find someone she can still call friend to aid her in removing her things, and yet, at the moment, nothing can possibly be more important than what she is about to say to the man that James was so convinced would aid them. She must tell him what has happened - must find a way to do so that does not involve breaking herself and at the moment, standing here in the cold, December wind, she cannot find the words.

She cannot go in. Not yet - not before she gathers her wits and her courage about her. She cannot show him her face yet - cannot allow her desperation to show through the mask, and so she stands, waiting, willing her face to fall into some semblance of order - of calm that she does not feel. The Admiral is not likely to be impressed by a weeping woman - few men ever are. Frightened, perhaps, but never, ever impressed, and damn it she’s trying not to allow her mouth to wobble or her breath to catch in her throat again but -

“Ma’am?” A man’s voice sounds behind her, and she turns to find a man standing behind her, looking puzzled and wearing a wig and clothing that could only belong to a valet or something of the sort. “Are you quite alright?”

She takes a deep breath. She is out of time.

“You are in the employ of Admiral Hennessey?” The man nods, clearly confused, and she straightens.

“Please inform him that Lady Hamilton has arrived and would like to speak with him regarding an urgent matter. It concerns the liaison that he sent.” She’s proud of how steady her voice sounds - how very straight she can still hold herself despite the trembling in her muscles and the tight feeling in her chest. The servant is staring, though - staring as though she had told him the world were ending, and she frowns.

“Is something the matter?” she asks, and oh, the question sounds absurd because of course something is the matter - nothing in all the world can possibly be right, not now, not today, and the look on the servant’s face seems to confirm it.

“Lieutenant McGraw?” he asks, his tone fearful. “Has something else happened?” The servant’s eyes have gone wide, and Miranda feels her stomach drop into her shoes. Hennessey knows - he must know.

“He has been informed already?” she asks, and the servant nods.

“Yes, ma’am. The note came from Lord Ashbourne this morning.”

Of course it did. Of course -

She swallows hard, anger replacing grief for just an instant - just long enough for her to hold her head high, steel in her tone as she says,

“Take me to the Admiral, please. We have a great deal to discuss.”

**********************

Under any other circumstances, he might have been pleased.

James has always been a solitary figure. He blames himself in part. Being taken under an admiral’s protection has done the boy few favors, situating him in an awkward position, both too common to be regarded well by his fellow officers and too highly placed to be at home with the ordinary deckhands. He has not made many friends among either group, and Hennessey has worried at that. It is not a favorable trait in someone destined to be an admiral, or, better yet, low-ranking nobility one day. Introducing him to the Hamiltons had seemed to be the next step in forcing the younger man out of his hermitage and into society - into the world he will need to learn to navigate if he is to go further than a lowly lieutenant, and yet the plan has gone so horrifically wrong that Hennessey wonders what in the hell he was thinking when he put it into place. How - how - has he gone from having such high hopes to - to -

“Admiral - sir - Lady Hamilton is here.” The servant’s voice sounds tentative, frightened. “Sir?”

“Tell her to go away.” His voice is a croak, horrible and raspy, worn rough by the shock and the grief he feels, made worse each time he looks at the horrifying note in his shaking left hand. He has not been able to let go of it yet, despite the hour that has passed, as if something has seared the wretched thing to his skin, forcing him to keep hold of it though it is as poisonous as any asp.

“Sir - she claims she is here regarding Lieutenant McGraw. Should I -”

“I said to tell her to leave,” Hennessey snaps. “I will not see her - not today, nor any other day either. Tell her to -” He stops, throat suddenly dry. “Tell her to go away,” he repeats, voice cracking, and the servant nods.

“Yes, sir,” he acknowledges and turns. “Shall I -?”

There are footsteps in the hall, and then cloth rustles, and Hennessey catches sight of the hem of a blue dress in the doorway.

“Admiral?” The voice that reaches him is lighter - female, unfamiliar, and he raises his head, startled, anger coursing through him at the sound. Lady bloody Hamilton, he recognizes, and if he were not an officer of her Majesty’s Navy, he might seriously consider breaking the law just this once to lay hands on her and escort her from his home himself, because has the woman no decency?

“Lady Hamilton,” he spits, and the woman in question flinches. It is perhaps the flinch that gives him the strength to keep going - he has never after all, backed away from a fight he was winning. “It is customary to wait until one has been invited in before barging into a man’s home.” The flinch he earns this time looks more genuine, and the woman squares her shoulders as if going into battle, lifts her head, a gesture that only makes him angrier somehow even as he watches her lips flatten into an unhappy, determined line.

“Well?” he barks. “Have you anything to say for yourself? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Admiral,” she begins. “I apologize for coming right now. Believe me, I would not have intruded were it not for-”

“The damage you have caused? If you have come to beg my forgiveness, you’ll get none.” The words escape him before he can even think of drawing them back. He has nothing left - no inhibitions, no sense of propriety holding him back. “It is beyond repair, as you well know.”

“Perhaps not,” Lady Hamilton says, moving forward, one hand reaching out as if to place it on his arm. He disallows the motion with a single glare, and she withdraws, pulling it back as if remembering herself.

“Admiral,” she says again, “- if you would speak with me - if you would but lend me a moment of your time, you will see that -”

He laughs in her face. The sound is unexpected and mirthless, hollow.

“There is nothing wrong with my _sight_ , Madam,” he informs her bitterly. “Her Majesty’s Navy stands on the cusp of ruin. All hope of reclaiming Nassau is gone, and _my son-”_ Hennessey’s voice cracks, breaks, and he stops, swallowing hard against the thing within him that wishes to scream, wishes to crawl into a bottle and never crawl back out. “My _son_ sits in Bedlam thanks to you and your - _poxy_ husband. What I would say to you, madam, would fit in the space of three words, but because I am a civilized man I will not say them. You come here to talk of more madness and I -” His voice rises, despite his best intentions, as he speaks. He cannot help it - the grief is trying to force its way out of him, the rage he feels rising, and the more he does so, the more he sees the patience leave Lady Hamilton’s face until at last -

“For God’s _sake_ will you stop shouting and listen to me?!” The veneer cracks, falls away, and a flash of something travels through her dark eyes. The woman’s voice stops him in his tracks, the veneer of civilization stripped from it, leaving behind something that is raw and exasperated - something far more authentic than the socialite’s polite mask she has worn until now.

“You have lost your son. I know! Do you think I do not understand what you’re feeling right now? Do you believe that _I_ do not feel the same? My _God_ , sir! This morning alone, I have been torn from my bed, forced to stand there while Lord Ashbourne’s men - while they -”

Her voice breaks, and for just a moment, a look of anguish flashes over her pale face - a look that Hennessey knows all too well, imagines must be reflected on his own face.

“They have taken my life from me,” she murmurs, very softly. “And I am enraged, fully as much as you if not more. Can you not see that much at least?”

The question hurts - and so does she, he realizes, although perhaps not for the same reasons he does. She is injured, yes - frightened, certainly, but -

He looks at her. He should forgive her - he knows it. He should be ready to jump to her aid - to see her point, and yet, god help him, all he can see is James’ face when last he saw him - when last they had spoken and he had warned him of this very thing occurring and dear God on high, has he not tried to tell him? Has he not tried to warn him that this woman and her husband were trouble? He should have known - he should have pulled James off the assignment, but more, she and Thomas Hamilton should never have brought his son into any of this. They should never - they had no _right_ -

The sheer wrongness of it is what grates at him, what raises his ire. They had no right at all, and now -

“Lady Hamilton,” he starts again, his voice low and grating. “I should hear you. A reasonable man - a _just_ man would do so. I know this to be true. I should likely also offer you some measure of hospitality at this moment, and did I think for even one moment that you felt for my son what I feel for him - that you returned in any significant measure the regard in which he holds you - that you understood the gravity of the danger you have subjected him to, I might relent and do so, but as it stands -” He stops, suddenly at a loss for words. “Do you have any notion of how very _wrong_ you have been - how very wrong you have _both_ been to draw him into this?”

The question bursts out of him before he can stop it, before he can call it back, and he is glad to be rid of it - to hear it uttered, to demand the answer of her. Lady Hamilton looks startled and he cannot tell if it is his words or the tone of them that has shocked her. He finds that he does not much care. He closes his eyes, leaning against his desk for strength. He does not have it in him to continue this confrontation - not right now, and she seems to sense that.

“Admiral -” Lady Hamilton begins, seeming to grope for words. “I can assure you - I am not insensible -”

“Then for God’s sake go home, madam.” He opens his eyes again, looks directly at her, at the shocked look on her face. “You will find no help here,” he emphasizes, “and I do not have the time to spare your feelings. Go home to your grief and leave me to mine.” He turns away, facing the window, unable to look at her for one moment more.

“You would leave them to rot?” she asks, her voice a bare whisper now, understanding and incredulity all wrapped into her tone. “You would truly -”

“I said nothing of the kind,” he snaps. “I will speak with Lord Ashbourne. I will have James released. Your husband, and your future, are your concern, and none of mine or his henceforth. Good day.”

There is silence for a moment, and then Lady Hamilton releases a breath.

“I see.” Her voice is low - tightly controlled, and he can well imagine the look on her face. “I wish you luck in your goal, sir. I will leave my address with your manservant should you change your mind, and I will go. Like you, I have much to do and no time to be wasted on attempting to convince you to change your mind.”

She turns, and the swish of her skirts fading away followed by the sound of the door closing tells him that she has left the room. He does not turn, not once, until he sees her get into a hackney and drive away and then, slowly, slowly, he drags a hand over his face. He does not know if he has made the right decision, but he cannot begin to reason with Alfred Hamilton if he is already in league with his disgraced daughter-in-law. He turns back to his desk, the letter from the Earl of Ashbourne still clutched in his hand, and crumples it. He has work to be done, and he cannot start doubting his decisions now.

***********************************

It takes four days to gain an audience with the Earl.

Each day feels like a lifetime. He can only imagine what James is enduring - what the boy he raised is feeling, and the thought is enough to drive him half mad himself. In the darkness that comes between each overcast, grey day, he comes to doubt himself - to doubt his ability to make decisions, to do what is right and best, and the feeling only intensifies when the Earl, rather than calling him to Whitehall or inviting him to his home, insists upon picking him up in a carriage.

“Nothing to be concerned about, Hennessey,” Ashbourne insists when the carriage arrives and Hennessey has climbed into it. “Just a brief trip into the town - one I thought you might wish to accompany me for.”

He must speak carefully. It does not matter that he wants to throttle Alfred where he sits - that he wants to find a way to hurt the man as badly as Hennessey himself has been injured. The boiling rage he feels is not important - not right now, and he vows that he will find a way to teach James that lesson when this is over, unless the experience itself has pounded the lesson home in a way Hennessey never would have wished for.

“Oh?” he asks, and Alfred nods, his mouth pursed, hand tapping against the head of his cane.

“It is only natural, after all, that you should wish to see that the issue has been dealt with appropriately, and I have instructions that must be given regarding the handling of my son.”

The import of his words hits Hennessey suddenly, and for a moment Alfred’s life hangs in the balance.

“We are - going to Moorfields?” Hennessey asks, his voice strangled. Alfred turns, and oh - he’s right there, he could be dead in a moment, just one single, satisfying moment that would cost both Hennessey and James everything. And that - that is perhaps part of the intent. Alfred is not smiling, but his demeanor -

“I assumed you would be pleased,” Alfred responds, and the urge to kill him burns, because here in one instant is both the chance to see James, to speak to him, and an insurmountable wall placed between them, because Alfred knows - he knows, Hennessey realizes, what James means to him, knows that Hennessey has known about this - peculiarity of his son’s all along and done nothing and to admit it would be tantamount to asking to be taken to Newgate immediately, as would offering any comfort or begging Alfred to release the boy. Worse - it would be signing a death warrant for any man under his command who shares his son’s proclivities - any man who has ever benefited from Hennessey’s patronage, for if he goes down, they all will by association. He is going to his son, and he cannot offer him a single word of reassurance, not one ounce of understanding, for the sake of all the other men in the Navy like him - for the sake of anyone Alfred Hamilton deems inconvenient. He looks at Alfred, and the malice he sees in the Earl’s eyes is anything but imagined, the danger all too real.

“Of course, my lord,” he answers, and the words burn like acid in his mouth. Yes my lord, no my lord, three fucking bags full my lord and whom would you like me to hand over without protest next? He has no choice, but by god -

The carriage stops, and Hennessey has never been more simultaneously glad and horrified in his life. He opens the door with a hand that he is amazed does not shake with rage, and stands, jaw clenched, waiting for the man in charge to finish fawning over Alfred like some form of overly anxious dog. They are led inside and -

Dear God.

Hennessey has never come here before. He knows that there are those who consider it entertainment, and upon entering - upon seeing the deplorable condition of the place - he cannot help but wish those people a painful death, because no human being should be forced to live here. The noise alone is terrible, and the smell -!

“The young lord and McGraw are this way,” their guide, one of the orderlies, babbles. “My lord - if we had known you were coming -”

“You would undoubtedly have spent exactly as much time to prepare,” Alfred snaps. “I did not come here for a grand tour of the facility. Take me to my son and then leave us.”

The orderly complies, and within a few moments, they are approaching the upper floors of the hospital where the cells line the walls and the moaning, screaming, and rattling emanating from the basement level are at least less audible but the wind whistles through what Hennessey is appalled to see are windows lacking any form of glass. It is freezing - hardly less so here than outside, and he cannot imagine the twisted minds that have decided that this place should masquerade as a hospital. There is nothing soft, here - nothing kind or, as far as he can tell beneficial to anyone but the puffed up egos of the men in charge of this hellhole. He has always pictured hell as fire and brimstone, but this -

“Here we are, my lord - Admiral. Right -”

“Leave us.” Alfred waves a hand, and the orderly scurries away. “I would have a moment to speak to my son, Hennessey,” Alfred says. “Your man should be -”

There is a scuffling sound as someone gets to their feet and then a pair of hands wrap themselves around the bars at the door next to them.

“Sir?” The word echoes around the corridor, and Hennessey turns.

“James?” The sigh of relief that sounds from behind the door is audible.

“Thank God,” the familiar voice utters. “Sir -” Hennessey moves - away from the door where Alfred is looking at him sternly, disapproving, his face set in a bilious scowl as he turns back, the sound of quieter rustling sounding as the younger Lord Hamilton rises. Hennessey turns away, turning his attention to his own son, who stands -

“ _Dear God in Heaven_ ,” he swears as he catches sight of James, “what in the _hell_ have they done to you?”

James winces, and the expression, like everything else about him, looks strange.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he answers, and Hennessey can feel his shock translate to his face, his eyebrows rising.

“Christ, boy, you look as if you’ve had the pox!”

He does not exaggerate. There is a pale tone to James’ skin, only exaggerated by the sunlight that is streaming in through the high, lone window bathing him in it, only highlighting the shapeless white clothing he is wearing. Between it and the shaven pate - James runs a hand over the bristles on his head and grimaces.

“I know,” he answers. “Sir - you have to get us out of here. My God - for a few days I thought you weren’t coming, but now -”

“James -”

“I assume that’s why you’ve come, although I can’t imagine why you would bring the Earl. You can’t really expect-”

“James!” He raises his voice, and James stops, pulling back just a hair, visibly startled.

“Sir?”

“I -” The words stick in his throat. “I did not come here to free you,” he admits finally, and James frowns.

“Well - maybe not right away, I suppose that’s a bit much to ask but surely -”

“It is too much altogether,” he answers, his voice still not entirely steady, and he takes a deep breath. “James - son -” He stops.

He can feel the anger boiling in him - anger at Alfred, anger at this place, at the men running it, at the whole wretched situation, and he can see the effect that anger is having on James. This is not right - none of this, and they both know it. He cannot say what he wishes. He cannot tell James that he intends to see him freed one way or another. He cannot reach out and clasp his son’s hand the way he wishes to - not with Alfred right there, within ear shot, despite the furious murmur that is coming from the next cell over. He cannot -

He must not, and so he straightens, his hands coming to rest behind him.

“Have you any notion,” he begins, “how much trouble you have nearly created for the Navy?” His voice is steady, soft - and filled with iron, the kind that had earned him more than a few unflattering nicknames as a captain. James’ frown intensifies.

“The Navy? Sir -” he starts, and Hennessey utterly ignores the part of him that wishes to stop this - the part that is James’ father, focusing instead on the commander he has become over the years.

“Silence, lieutenant!” The words are a bark, and James stiffens, his eyes widening in shock. Hennessey takes a deep breath, jaw clenching. He _is_ angry, he realizes - on some level, he is _angry_ about this. To think that the boy he raised should be so reckless - so bloody bull-headed stubborn - so _heedless_. He does not want to say what he must next, but that small spark - that tiny burning cinder of anger inside him serves to force his face to contort, to create the disgust he needs to utter the words that leave his mouth next.

“I did not want to believe it, when I was first informed,” he continues. “My protege - the liaison I sent, recommended to the Admiralty, to Lord Ashbourne, could never have been so damned _base_ as to commit such an act. Could never have so gone against the rule of both God and man, and yet -” He gestures around him. “Are you happy, boy?”

James is staring at him now, utterly horrified.

“Happy?” he breathes. “No - I - of course I’m not, what are you talking about -?”

“The mess you’ve caused! Dear God, lad, surely you are not so dull as to fail to understand what was at stake before Lord Ashbourne stepped in, and all for the sake of a -” He stops, searching for a word. He knows why James has done what he has done and he does not blame him for it - not truly, cannot when he has seen his son speaking of the object of his affections with something strongly approaching joy on his face. He knows and understands, and yet -

“For the sake of a dalliance that I can scarcely bring myself to contemplate,” he ends at last, his heart shriveling at the words. He cannot continue - he wants to stop, to beg James’ forgiveness here and now, to turn and bash Lord Alfred Hamilton’s head against the bars and then fall on his knees and he cannot - he cannot, even as James recoils still further, his lower lip trembling, mouth slightly open, his brows drawn together.

“Sir?” he breathes. “Sir - I can explain -”

“No, you cannot.” The words come from beside him, and Hennessey turns to find Alfred. “There can be no explanation, as I have just finished making clear to my son.” He looks at James, and Hennessey wants to pop his rheumy eyes out for so much as daring to light on James, and yet he stands, hands still behind his back, his own mouth drawn into an unhappy line. Alfred shakes his head.

“I expect these things,” he says, “from him. This - stupidity, this strain of insanity, it is not the first time, but not from a naval officer of any caliber, let alone coming as highly recommended as you have been. In my own house!”

The cane strikes the floor, and James flinches, as does Hennessey, although less perceptibly.

“Anything happening in that house was better than anything you’ve ever done in your whole life!” comes the voice from the other cell, and Alfred grimaces.

“Ignore him,” he instructs. “Hennessey - inform the boy what his disgusting nature has earned him.”

James is staring at them both, now, and Hennessey can see his chest heaving, his mouth hanging ever so slightly open.

“ _Sir_ -” he begs, and Hennessey shakes his head - turns away. He cannot look at the boy - not now, not when he is so very vulnerable in a way that Hennessey has not seen him in long years.

“I am sorry, James,” he murmurs, and he hopes that James can read the sincerity in that at least. “The Navy cannot help you - _I_ cannot help you - not this time. You are discharged from service - permanently, and without recourse to appeal. Your rank is to be rescinded, all honors removed from your record.” He can hear his son’s labored breathing - can hear the terrified, heartbroken little gasps from the cell, and he cannot look. He turns his face even further away, looking deliberately anywhere but at James.  “I wish that there were another way. I wish there were something to be done to mend this - mistake of yours, but it is too vile, too -”

“Utter one more word and I swear you’ll regret it.” The words come once again from next door - a high, clear voice that Hennessey does not recognize but knows must belong to Thomas Hamilton. “The only vile thing here is what you are apparently intent upon doing to James. My God, and you called _me_ a coward!”

Thank God, he thinks, with a burst of surprise and gratitude, for Thomas Hamilton. He turns to the young lord, ignoring his son for a moment, and meets a pair of furious blue eyes, looking out from an equally shaven face that is pressed nearly up against the bars.

“Lord Hamilton,” he starts, and Thomas cuts him off.

“If you think you’re going to silence me so that you can go back to abusing him, you can forget it,” he insists. “There’s nothing about James that is anything less than noble, and that you would stand there telling him otherwise is a mark of the villainy you are capable of yourselves. You’re a pair of petty, horrible, _little_ men who aren’t worth a tenth of what he is, either individually or put together. You wish to discuss things that are vile? Let’s start with you, gentlemen, and we’ll continue on to the whole bloody establishment, shall we? The Navy, Parliament, the whole rotten lot!” Thomas’ face is a study in fury, a light in his eyes as he stares at Hennessey and Alfred, hands clutching the bars as James’ had done a moment ago. He is pale, but it looks less unnatural on him, somehow, and for a moment, Hennessey cannot help but feel a strange sense of gratitude and even admiration for the man.

Alfred, on the other hand, obviously feels nothing of the kind.

“Leave him,” Alfred’s voice sounds beside Hennessey, and he turns to find the Earl looking at his son, a displeased, pinched expression on his face. “I have said as much as I wished. Let my son rave and we will be on our way.”

Thomas snorts.

“Oh that’s rich,” he says loudly. “You look ridiculous in those wigs, have I ever mentioned? You, Admiral, you look like a toadstool, and Father, you look like one of those odious little dogs the old King kept - do you remember? The ones that used to piss on the floor and sleep all day long and then occasionally -”

They begin to walk away, and Hennessey can hear Thomas behind him, shouting still.

“ _For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?”_

Thomas’ voice continues to shout abuse but there is no sound from James. The silence yawns in Hennessey’s head, louder than the sounds of their steps receding - louder than the sound of Thomas’ voice lowering as Hennessey nears the end of the corridor.

“James,” he hears the younger man call. “James - can you hear me? James, they’re gone - James, please -”

The gasp that answers him echoes, and Hennessey spends the rest of the journey out of the building hearing the small, broken sob that makes its way to his ears before he turns the corner, following Alfred out of the building. He hears, too, the sounds of soothing words coming from the man he has condemned as a feckless noble idiot, doing what he himself cannot - the man who has said to Alfred what Hennessey himself cannot, and while facing far greater risk.

“Nothing to be done about it, Hennessey,” Alfred says as the carriage bumps over the cobblestones. “We must not let these things affect business, after all. Good sense governs us all,” and Hennessey sees in his mind’s eye James’ wide, horrified eyes, hears his voice, so relieved to see him, unaware of what was about to happen.

He hears it still as they sit in the carriage, neither one saying a word - hears it in his home, later that night, and the sound still torments him all the way to the townhouse where Lady Miranda Hamilton is staying.

Guilt, he thinks as he waits on her step, is an odd thing. It has blinded him to the truth, more than once. It drives men to odd things - drives them to great deeds at times and at others, it brings out the worst in human nature, and it is this latter phenomenon that he now regrets with all his being. Still - there is time to mend his bridges, or so he devoutly hopes. James cannot stay there - not one moment more than necessary, and to turn down a potential ally -

“Admiral Hennessey, to see Lady Hamilton,” he croaks to the servant, “tell her - I apologize, for what I said about her and her husband. Tell her -” He swallows hard. “Tell her I would like to stop wasting time.”

***********************************

_Bethlem:_

Night has fallen in the hospital. The screaming and laughing and the sounds of the orderlies going down the hallway have faded, replaced by a sort of hush. Moonlight has begun to shine through the windows, and Thomas huddles against one wall of his cell, wishing against all sense that he had the ability to walk through the wall to be with the man on the other side.

“Shhh,” he murmurs again. “James - it’s alright. I swear to God, if I ever get my hands on either of them -”

A soft, tired, half-broken chuckle comes from the cell next to him, and Thomas breathes a silent sigh of relief. It’s been five hours, but his lover has finally stopped weeping - stopped raging, finally _stopped_.

“I’d pay good money to see it,” James answers. He takes a deep breath - another one, less shaky this time. He sounds better, finally.

“They can’t keep us in here forever,” Thomas tells him. “And when we’re freed - what was that Shakespeare quote? Ah yes - I am disgraced, impeach'd and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venom'd spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed this poison.”

“Richard the second,” James answers. “Thomas -” He cannot see his lover, damn it - cannot see the look on his face to know whether it is love or concern or both or neither, but he can hazard a guess.

“I’m not letting them get away with this, James,” he says quietly. “They’ll pay for this - for hurting you. One day soon we’ll both be safe from them.”

They take James to another cell an hour later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a historical note: the reason Hennessey mentions Moorfields is that Bethlem Royal Hospital was located in that district of London at the time. I've never been quite so pleased to announce that a historical building has since been torn down.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.... LIIIIIIVE! Apologies for the wait on this, everyone - the finale wrecked me good and proper and I spent about a week utterly unable to write a word. Since then I've been tormented by plot bunnies. Chapter Four is all plotted out, and I have so many other things in the works.

Thomas cannot sleep.

He tosses and turns, trying to find a comfortable position, or at least one that does not make some part of him feel as if it’s been pummeled recently. He cannot do it, of course - the straw-filled mattress does little to cushion him from the bed frame beneath and the stone floor is even worse, and, as if that were not bad enough, he is cold - constantly cold in this place, his feet and hands freezing even under the thin blanket and the rest of him is little better. To make things worse, he can hear someone passing down the gallery outside his cell - off of the pattern that he has established for the passing of the orderlies and he shuts his eyes, frustrated beyond belief. He has imagined that he has the routines of this place memorized insofar as there is a routine to this hell - seeing one of them broken brings a fresh sense of despair, and Christ, what has his life been reduced to that he should start counting on routine torture and monitoring to make sense of the passage of the days? He refuses to regard any of what has been done to him thus far as therapy of any kind. He is not insane, and he does not require medical intervention. It is a truth that he clings to, despite the constant insistence of the doctor to the contrary. He is not a madman. He is not -

Light shines into his cell, and he tenses. They have never come for him at night before. The night is safe, or it should be. His father would never venture out of his house at night for fear of being waylaid by thieves or worse, and the physician must go to wherever he lives when the day ends. There should be no one to torment him - not here, not now, _oh please_ _let it be so_ -

“Lord Hamilton?” The voice at the door is quiet. “Are you awake, lad? If you can hear me -” The voice cuts off, and he hears a sigh from beyond the door. “No point in it I suppose,” Admiral Hennessey mutters, and Thomas sits up, finally convinced that he is neither dreaming or imagining things. He hasn’t been certain, since -

He wraps the blanket around himself and shuffles toward the door, and the light raises, shining directly in his face. He winces, holding up one hand, and the light is turned slightly, allowing him to see again and revealing the lined face of the man he has only truly seen once. He recognizes him all the same - the straight mouth, the eyes that look kindly and are not, the uniform coat, and that damned wig - the one that is currently shining in the torchlight.

“Good God,” Hennessey murmurs, and Thomas snorts derisively.

“You’ll have to forgive my attire,” he says bitingly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting company, aside from the fleas, of course - they don’t much give a damn whether I’d like them here or not, as it turns out.” He glares at the Admiral through the gap in the bars. He looks a fright - he knows that much, can see it in the way that the flesh is slowly falling away from his wrists even if they won’t give him a looking glass and he can only imagine the nigh-skeletal aspect it must lend to his face when combined with his bald head that has only just begun to be covered again in blond fuzz. He doesn’t care about any of that right now - in fact, he rather wishes that he had a sketch artist for the look of horror on the Admiral’s face. Good. Let the man be horrified at what has been done. Let him carry the tale of Thomas’ dreadful appearance out of the prison. Let it haunt him - it’s only fair. “I suppose my father’s sent you?”

The Admiral shakes his head minutely.

“I’ve come of my own accord,” he answers, and Thomas glares.

“If you’re here to torment James further -”

“I am not,” Hennessey answers, and Thomas -

Three weeks ago, he might have believed it. He knows it. Three weeks ago, he might have understood - might have given the Admiral some leeway, might have been willing to be reasonable. Then again, three weeks ago he was not cold, and tired, wrapped in a thin blanket in the dead of winter being held in an exceedingly small stone cell. His glare intensifies, and he takes a step closer to the bars.

“Don’t tell me you’ve discovered an ounce of decency,” he snaps. “Or did you scrape it up off the floor among the other things you took from James the last time you were here?”

“I should like to think I had retained some of my own,” Hennessey answers heavily, and Thomas cannot help the incredulous, disbelieving laughter that makes its way up his throat.

“You?” he asks. “You wouldn’t know decency if it bit you in the arse. Tell me, Admiral - before you became my father’s lackey, did you ever love James? Enough to comfort him when he cried as a boy?”

Hennessey sighs.

“He was never one for weeping,” he answers, “but yes.” The older man sounds tired - as if the day has been a long one, and Thomas can feel the anger build. Hennessey is tired? No. No, he is not, but he will be.

“So you did love him.” His voice is an unfamiliar, quiet, hard thing. He leans forward, eyes fixed on Hennessey’s, his face terribly close to the bars, his mouth contorted in a snarl. “Then perhaps you can begin to fathom what it was like, sitting in this cell, listening to him gasping for air, weeping, frightened, and knowing that I could do nothing to aid him.” The words are biting, cold, and horrible, and he does not regret a single one of them. “He cried, Admiral,” he continues, unrelenting. “He wept. Does that sound like James to you?”

“Lord Hamilton -” Hennessey starts, and Thomas can no longer restrain the snapping, growling thing that is building in his chest. He slams a hand against the door, rattling it.

“You _hurt him_ , damn you! You wounded him to the very marrow, and you have the sheer nerve to come here and -” His voice is rising now - gaining in volume and agitation and he does not care, not in the face of this unexpected outlet for his frustration, his rage, his _fear_ -

“Your wife sends her regards.”

He wheezes, the words stealing the breath from Thomas’ chest as surely as if he had been kicked.

“She - what?” he gets out. He cannot breathe - he cannot think, not when -

“Your lady wife sends her love. She would not allow me to leave my house this evening without making certain I told you that. I assume that you would wish to know how she fares now that you are here?”

He stares at Hennessey, dumbstruck.

“You - you have her?” he asks. The notion is an awful one. If Alfred has managed to do this - has managed to make Hennessey accomplice to this as well -

Hennessey’s mouth opens for a moment, and he closes it again abruptly.

“No,” he answers. “Good _God_ , no. It is not - Saints alive, boy, even your father does not have the necessary influence to do such a thing, let alone to make me a party to it.” The Admiral sounds horrified, his brows drawn together in what Thomas perceives as genuine consternation.

He takes a deep breath. No. No, even his father does not have that power - Hennessey is right. Miranda’s family would never allow her to be used in such a fashion, let alone Miranda herself, and besides - Alfred Hamilton has all the leverage he requires. He has James - that alone is enough to make both Thomas and Miranda reconsider any rash action they might have contemplated taking. Miranda is safe. And if she has sent Hennessey here -

“I assume she sent a letter,” he says, his voice surprisingly even given the shaking in his hands. Hennessey reaches into his coat and pulls out a sheet of paper, sealed with wax that Thomas breaks open hastily, his fingers fumbling in the darkness. He can see the words - can see Miranda’s graceful hand writing them, almost, but he cannot read, not in the poor light, with his eyes welling tears and oh damn it all why can he not keep hold of himself lately such that any small thing is enough to break his composure? He closes his eyes, teeth clenched, trying not to weep in front of the Admiral. He forces himself to breathe - forces himself to open his eyes, to skim over the letter, resolving to save reading it properly until he is alone and can afford to cry, or to laugh, or to simply savor the memory of his wife’s voice as he imagines her speaking the words on the page. He lowers the letter, looking at Admiral Hennessey again. If what Miranda says is true -

It is not that he does not wish to forgive the man. Miranda’s letter makes it clear that she is convinced of his innocence in this, and yet -

_“Today I shall be meeting with interference, ingratitude, insolence, disloyalty, ill-will, and selfishness – all of them due to the offenders’ ignorance of what is good or evil. But for my part I have long perceived the nature of good and its nobility, the nature of evil and its meanness, and also the nature of the culprit himself, who is my brother.”_

The quote pops into his head quite unbidden, and yet he cannot deny that in this instance, Aurelius perhaps has a point. That does not, however, mean that he intends to go easy on the man - not yet.

“You hurt James,” he says, quietly, steel in his voice to replace the white-hot anger of moments earlier. “I _will_ hear an apology for that. I will hear you make amends to him. I am not a cruel man, Admiral, but -”

Hennessey holds up a hand.

“I do not expect your forgiveness. You’ve a right to be angry,” he acknowledges.

Thomas closes his eyes. The words are balm, of a sort. He’s been told over and over again for the past few weeks that he does not, in fact, have the right to his anger - to his defiance, to any emotion at all but what they tell him to have, and though he does not yet believe them, it is good to hear someone disagree with his tormentors, even a person he is still angry with. 

“Miranda says that you have been helping her to petition for our freedom from the courts,” he says quietly. He has never been prone to rage - not truly, and shouting for long periods is largely beyond him. Besides - he has no wish to call the guards down upon himself through excessive noise and end this conference now that he has business to discuss. (What would he not _give_ for something to truly discuss - for something to occupy his mind? The boredom here is quite as maddening as anything else. He shoves the thought away forcibly - he cannot dwell on that.)

“I have,” Hennessey answers him, and he opens his eyes again. “We’ve had no success yet, but it is only a matter of time. I -”

The Admiral pauses, and when he speaks again, there is something like remorse in his voice.

“I wanted no part of this,” the Admiral tells him quietly. “I know you are not obliged to believe me, but I would have you know. Your father -”

Anger sweeps over him again.

“I have no father,” Thomas snaps, and Hennessey looks up, surprised, and Thomas feels a spike of shock at himself, accompanied by sharp disappointment. Confine yourself to the present, Aurelius had written, and yet here he is, back in the moment of his last discussion with Alfred. With effort, he pulls himself back together. He may have a right to his fury, but not right now.

“I am not his son,” he repeats quietly. “If I ever truly was. Go on.”

“The Earl is blocking us at present,” Hennessey finishes. “And Peter Ashe -”

Thomas frowns.

“Peter?” he asks, and Hennessey starts.

“The letter didn’t mention anything about him,” Thomas tells him, concern growing. “What of him? Does he send any word? Is -”

Hennessey stares, and Thomas feels his stomach clench.

“What is it?” he asks, and Hennessey’s eyes - dear god, but is that -

The pity in the Admiral’s eyes is worse, somehow, than any scorn Thomas has ever faced, and he stares, unable to get out another word.

“What is it?” he croaks finally, and Hennessey grimaces.

“My lord - you may wish to have a seat.”

**********************************************

She still can hardly believe it.

The thought has crossed her mind over and over again in the past weeks. She wakes, sometimes, and wonders if this has all been a terrible nightmare, but the bed remains empty and unfamiliar, the room she sleeps in producing shadows that do nothing to calm her nerves - nothing to calm the overwhelming fear that moving away from her husband’s home is not enough, that she will wake again to booted feet on the stairs and banging and shouting, to be dragged away to the same hell as her men. She fears it - fears, too, what it is doing to her, as she wakes during the night to the slightest of noises, afraid and shaking. She feels herself becoming irritable, as a result - snappish, in a way that she never was previously. The nightmares, too, do not help, and more than anything she wishes for Thomas’ warmth, for James’ breath against the back of her neck to calm her, for anything that would halt this change into someone she does not recognize. She cannot sleep, and as a result, she cannot concentrate - nor can she find it in herself to forgive, which perhaps explains where she stands now.

Admiral Hennessey, she thinks vaguely, would likely have advised caution. She has grown to know the man in the past few weeks. Under other circumstances, they would likely have made good friends, even. As it stands, they have come to a sort of tentative agreement - an understanding built on mutual fear and love and horror at what has been done and the understanding that their disagreements mean little in the face of the horror still to come if they do not act in concert. The Admiral, much like Miranda herself before this began, would tell her to wait, to be cautious, not to arouse Alfred’s ire any further. He would, Miranda thinks, likely be right, too, but it has been weeks - weeks of jangling nerves and sleepless nights and worry and grief and the itch to do something - anything - is simply too great to ignore any longer. Besides - they cannot have Alfred’s pet running free, uprooting all of their attempts to free Thomas and James before they ever have the chance to bear fruit. No - better to nip this in the bud while still she has the chance.

“How in the hell did you find these?” Peter Ashe asks, his hands shaking, clutching the documents that spell his utter ruin. They are standing in his study - shortly to be Miranda’s study, if Miranda has anything to say about it, along with all the rest of his property.

“You should be more careful whom you betray.”

Peter gapes, and Miranda’s smile turns vicious.

“These - Miranda - you cannot seriously -” Ashe starts, the color of his face beginning to match his name, and Miranda's smile widens, all trace of mirth missing and oh she understands her own grandmother so much better, now - now that she has tasted of the same bitterness the older woman had undoubtedly felt, now that she has felt that same grim satisfaction, the same wintry chill running through her veins as she tears the man’s life down around his ears.

“I don’t see why not,” she answers, and Peter’s expression is a caricature, pathetic pleading accompanied by absolute shock.

“Miranda, please!” Peter’s voice is high, and frightened, and Miranda feels a vicious thrill run through her at the sound. He does not deserve mercy. He does not deserve a goddamned thing from her or anyone else.

“You took my husband from me,” she tells him, all amusement gone from her voice. “You ruined James’ good name - took his career from him and flung him into prison alongside Thomas - and you want me to relent?”

Peter stares, and Miranda can see understanding dawning in his eyes.

“You know,” he breathes. “Oh God. Oh _God_ -”

“Run, Peter. You may just make it to France before the Duke can catch up with you and drag you back for execution,” she tells him as she turns away. “I would say au revoir but if I ever see you again, I’ll make Bedlam seem like a mercy. Go.”

Peter turns, a horrified look on his face, and darts out of the room, and Miranda looks around the study, quietly surveying it. It will do nicely, she thinks - she and Hennessey will need a base of operations and this place will serve - as will the harpsichord sitting in his drawing room and the complete lack of anything that will remind her of her home on Albemarle Street with its memories of her men being dragged through the front doors while she sobbed. She will apologize to Peter’s wife and daughter when this is over - when she no longer feels as if every breath might just possibly be her last as the woman she has been up until now.

*********************************

“- I’m sorry, lad.” Hennessey’s voice pierces the fog that has suddenly enveloped Thomas’ mind finally, and he looks up.

“Peter betrayed us,” he repeats flatly. “ _Peter?_ ”

“It appears that the rat has claws as well as unfortunate teeth,” Hennessey answers, and Thomas grants him a singularly unamused look.

“I assume Miranda knows,” he questions, and Hennessey nods.

“I’ve a notion that I should return home ere long,” he answers. “She had a look on her face I would wager bodes ill for someone when I left.”

Thomas snorts.

“I’m quite certain you’re correct,” he answers, and Hennessey looks surprised. “Let her do as she will, Admiral. I think you’ll find that she knows best how to handle her own affairs and mine - more than I ever did.”

“More than you ever _will_ ,” Hennessey corrects, and Thomas flinches.

“You have a highly abrasive method of -” he starts, and then catches Hennessey’s meaning. He’s not certain when he started referring to himself in the past tense, but it’s not a habit he intends to form. “Ah,” he finishes. He should not feel shame, he knows, at being caught unawares, and yet he cannot help the thought that prior to being incarcerated here, he would have caught the Admiral’s point immediately.

“We will have you out of here soon,” Hennessey promises, as if reading his mind. “By hook or by crook. Both of you.”

Thomas takes a deep breath. The reassurance is - well, it does what it’s meant to do.

“I would appreciate it if you would relay that to James,” he tells Hennessey. “They moved him away from me the day you came. I have not -” He stops and swallows hard. “I can only hope they’re treating him well,” he says, and Hennessey’s mouth turns downwards. The older man’s hand twitches, and he quickly tucks it behind himself, standing straighter as he does so. Thomas recognizes the gesture - it is one he has observed in James, and one day, he is going to catalog which mannerisms James has picked up from this man who all but raised him.

“I have every intention of going to see him directly,” Hennessey says, and Thomas nods.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve got something with you to write with?” he asks, and Hennessey shakes his head.

“I had not anticipated this distance between you,” he confesses, and Thomas feels a sharp pang of disappointment. If he cannot speak with his partner, he had hoped at least to write him a note - something to comfort him in his isolation.

“I will send him your regards. Is there anything -?” Hennessey starts to ask, and Thomas nods.

“Yes. Tell him -” He swallows hard. “Tell him I said to remember his Aurelius.”

******************************

James is trying not to blame this on himself.

He knows what Thomas would have to say on the matter. If his lover were here, he would quote the Bible at James until he gave up his stubborn insistence on tormenting himself with thoughts of damnation and shame - until he allowed himself to be kissed and touched, convinced of the truth of Thomas’ words through sheer overwhelming affection. Thomas, though, is not here, and neither is Miranda, and James McGraw misses both with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns. He is afraid, and Miranda is not there to help him strategize or to puncture his more ridiculous anxieties with a single jab of her wit. He is tired and desperately lonely, and Thomas might as well be a world away rather than just a few floors for all that James cannot reach him - cannot touch him, cannot even hear him even if they were to shout to one another. (He knows. He’s tried it - the bruises  he received from an orderly are still smarting and he hopes that Thomas fared better than he off of their ill-advised attempt to be disruptive enough to be moved closer together again. That is another problem - there is no position in which he can sleep that does not hurt.)

James is huddled in a corner of his cell. He has long since given up on sleep - it’s no use, and he might as well be groggy for what they will inevitably do to him again tomorrow. Perhaps, he thinks, he can sleep through the shearing again a second time. Perhaps if he’s truly lucky, he’ll collapse from exhaustion and they’ll be forced to either let him go or let him rest - their orders, it seems, are not to harm him as such but to keep him in such a condition as to render resistance difficult. So far that has meant cold baths, bleedings, and several rounds of purgatives that have left him seriously considering whether or not he will ever be able to enjoy food again once he has left this place - and he _must_ leave this place. They both must, and soon. He can’t keep track of the passage of time here - not since they’ve taken him from the cell where he had started to mark the days, not since the first couple of times that he has blacked out and lost track of how many hours have gone by. He can estimate, but he would rather not. It has been too long - he knows that much. Three hours would have been too long, let alone the three weeks he suspects they have been there. A month, he’d thought at the start of this. Miranda would have them out within a month, and how woefully naive he had been to think that they would survive it unscathed. If he ever willingly sees another damned doctor after this it will be a bloody miracle, he thinks sourly. Indeed - if he ever boards another ship, it will be one with no fewer than three cats such that he never has to lay eyes on a mouse, or a rat, or whatever the hell the thing had been that had poked its nose into his cell the day before -

Footsteps sound in the corridor outside, and James closes his eyes. No. It cannot be morning already - it simply cannot be. He cannot have lost track of time so badly - which means that he is hallucinating the sound, and isn’t that just fucking wonderful?

“I’ve brought you a blanket.” The words sound loud, to James ears - as does the beating of his heart when he opens his eyes and find that Admiral Hennessey’s wigged head is at his door. “James,” the Admiral’s voice says again, and he cannot be imagining this, surely - he hopes he is not. He shifts, and sees the Admiral frown. “James?” he repeats.

“Fuck off,” James croaks, and hears the older man exhale.

“Thank the good Lord Almighty,” Hennessey murmurs. “For one moment I thought you had either tunneled out or were waiting in the corridor somewhere to murder me. I cannot say I would much blame you on either count.”

His words give James pause, but only momentary. They do not fit - not with what he had said to James those weeks ago, now, and if he intended to disavow those words, why would he not have done it before now? No. Something is afoot here, and James is not having any of it.

“I don’t know what the hell you want, but I’m not going to be the one to give it to you,” James answers him. He still hasn’t moved out of the corner of his cell - he has managed to build up some small amount of body heat here between himself and the wall and he’s not giving it up, not for a most likely non-existent blanket, or to hear whatever Hennessey wants in exchange for the aforementioned scrap of cloth (and _oh,_ he hurts at the mere memory of the wonderful, thick woolen blankets that he had been dragged out from under, that morning that he had found himself brought to this foul fucking place. If he ever returns to that house - to his comfortable spot in the bed between his two lovers - he is never, ever going to leave again, the world be damned).

“For the moment what I want is to grant you a means to keep yourself warm, and to pass along a message,” Hennessey answers. “There is a letter folded in the blanket - I suggest you read it. Your young lordling sends his regards, and an entreaty to remember your Aurelius, and I’m certain I do not wish to know what the phrase may mean between you.” James closes his eyes. They are Thomas' words - he has no doubt about that, and he understands their meaning. Know no shame, Thomas had written, and the reminder is timely, but the reminder of his lover hurts, too, and he wishes more than anything he could hear the phrase out of Thomas' mouth - that he could reassure him in turn - that they could establish some means of communication other than the man at the door. James does not move, and Hennessey sighs.

“James - son - there is, if you will pardon the lesson at this late date and the hypocrisy of my saying it, a line between proving a point and merely being stubborn for its own sake. You are fast approaching the latter.”

He ignores Hennessey’s voice. He has no use for pretty words, or faked attempts at apology. He knows where he sits, still. He knows where Thomas is, and he cannot bring himself to believe the tiny, injured portion of his heart that wants so badly to believe that Hennessey has changed his mind. That portion always gets him into trouble. He huddles closer, shivering abominably, and hears Hennessey sigh.

“I sincerely hope the floor is dry,” he murmurs, and then begins to wedge the blanket through the bars of the door. He -

The moment that James realizes that Hennessey truly does intend to give him the blanket, something lodges in his throat, and he feels his heart jump. He rises swiftly, scrambling toward the door just in time to keep both blanket and letter from dropping to the floor among the filthy straw and the fleas that have made their home there. If he’s very, very lucky, the fabric will remain unsullied for some time, untouched by fleas or James’ blood or anything else unsavory, and he will be able to spend that time unbitten, smelling something that is actually, truly clean for the first time in nearly a month, and blessedly warm. He takes the items, staring at Hennessey, and sees the older man smile.

“Why?” he asks, and Hennessey’s brow furrows.

“ _Why?_ ” he repeats, and James wraps his arms around the new blanket, hugging it close to himself.

“You’ve made your disgust at what I am clear,” he answers. “You told me I was alone - that I had forfeited all right to aid or sympathy. Why do this now? Why taunt me like this?” He knows better than to trust this. He knows what was said - he knows what he heard. He can still recall the desperate tone of Thomas’ voice as he had attempted to draw the older man’s attention away from James - can recall the way that his lungs had stopped working and his heart had frozen in his chest at Hennessey’s condemnation. Whatever the Admiral is here for, he sincerely doubts -

Hennessey is looking at him as though his own heart has just broken.

“James - lad -” he starts, and then there is a sound in the corridor - keys jangling, and Hennessey curses. “ _Damn_ it,” he murmurs, and James feels his heart speed up again, this time in utter panic. He begins to back away, and Hennessey steps closer to the bars, closer to the door.

“James!” he barks, and James jumps. He stops his retreat almost by muscle memory, and the Admiral darts a look down the corridor. “I am out of time,” he says urgently. “Read the letter. It will explain a great deal. I will return soon, that much I promise, with the keys in my hands, so help me God. James -” He stops, his mouth moving in that way that James has come to recognize as meaning he has something to say that he does not like the shape of. “I am sorry,” he says finally. “I wish you to know that. I had little choice, but I -” The footsteps draw closer, and Hennessey turns, visibly exasperated. “Damn it, I am going! Do I _look_ like one of the benighted inmates?” He turns back.

“I will explain everything when we next speak to one another. You have my love.”

James snorts, and Hennessey winces.

“Prove it,” James answers. Hennessey can beg all he wishes - James had certainly found it of little use when he had tried it.

“I shall.” The words sound in the corridor, and by the time James turns back, the Admiral is gone, the footsteps retreating down the hall, the jangling of the keys fading into silence, and he is left with a head full of questions and an armful of one of the blankets off of Thomas’ and Miranda’s bed.

**********************************

_Hennessey’s home, Hampstead:_

He returns home to find Lady Hamilton waiting for him.

It is not that he does not expect her presence. Since they have become allies in a common cause, it has not been unusual for one or the other of them to make a late night visit, quietly and without fanfare, slipping in and out of each other’s homes so as to avoid being seen colluding. His servants have become acquainted with her and hers with him, although Hennessey fancies that he is slightly more stealthy despite his advancing years.* Still - tonight there is something different in her manner - a restless energy kept under tight control that Hennessey can nevertheless recognize.

“I suppose asking what you have done would go over poorly,” he says, putting down his hat on the table. He is tired, and the night’s business has left him irritable - he knows it. The urgent desire to shout and overturn furniture will not leave him, he suspects, until his son and Lord Hamilton have left the confines of Bedlam. Until that day, he will have to make do with the tight tone to his voice and the way his teeth clench of their own volition whenever he ceases speaking.

“That depends entirely for whom you anticipate the conversation going poorly,” Miranda answers, and there is very little by way of amusement in her voice. She too, is distant, her voice carefully controlled. She turns to face him, and he is not surprised to see the steel that has crept into her eyes, or the straight line of her back, the set of her shoulders, easily the equal of any man standing to attention at his station before a battle.

“Peter Ashe is currently on his way to France - or perhaps Amsterdam,” she tells him, and he closes his eyes.

“You allowed him to leave?” he asks, and she frowns.

“You would have preferred not?” she asks, and he shakes his head.

“The man is a snake,” he tells her. “You cannot imagine -”

“I think I can imagine, all too well,” she interrupts, and he stops. Of course - she is right.

“You are certain, then, that he will not return to haunt us?”

“By the time he can turn his fortunes around, I intend to be long gone.”

He stands, looking at her for a moment.

“Your rage could prove our undoing,” he warns her. She raises her chin, a familiar belligerent expression crossing her face, and he thinks for one moment that she has, evidently, picked up more than resilience from his son.

“How did they seem?” she asks pointedly. He exhales.

“I have seen worse,” he tells her.

“On deck, or in the surgery after a battle?” she asks, and he sighs.

“Your point is taken,” he snaps, and she nods.

“Good.” She crosses the room, and places a hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she says, “for conveying my message. Goodnight, Admiral.”

He watches as she walks away, disappearing through the darkened halls of his house. It is easy to forget that Miranda Hamilton is shorter than he - she is a force of nature, this woman. It is just as well - she has just stirred up nothing less than a storm, and they will need all the resources at their disposal to not only weather it but profit from it. Thomas has assured him that Miranda can manage this - Hennessey certainly hopes that he was right.

  
  


 

 

 

*He is wrong. Miranda is quieter, less obtrusive, but she allows him the illusion that he’s still a sly old dog.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning on this chapter for some not-particularly-graphic violence and the nastiness that is the only OC in this story.

He will not beg - not this time.

The strap lands on James’ shoulders again, and he clenches his teeth, a small whimper making its way past his lips. He will not scream - will not give the bastard beating him what he wants.

“Go on - beg for it.” The words are uttered somewhere behind him, and he has sustained enough blows that he can no longer keep track of where it might be located - can no longer summon the energy to struggle. “Scream.” 

He coughs, and attempts to haul himself upward.

“Never - again,” he manages to utter. The strap lands again, once, twice, over and over, and James can feel his breath becoming ragged, can feel the heat of bruises forming, can feel where the strap has dug in and drawn blood.

“Beg!” the man demands, and James turns his head and spits.

“Fuck you,” he answers, and then closes his eyes, his mind forming the pleas his tongue will not as the beating continues.

**************************************************

Thomas knows it the moment that he finally breaks. 

He has sworn to himself that this place will not change him - that Alfred will not have his way, and in the wake of Hennessey’s visit, he renews that vow, frightened by the anger that welled up in him. He takes comfort, at least temporarily, in the notion that Miranda is coming for him. He waits patiently - waits, and prays, and trusts in his wife. He attempts to read the changes in his treatment, attempts to hold onto that faith through so many small indignities and some larger ones - tells himself with each passing day and each rattle of his chains that he will be taken from this place soon. He has recited Aurelius to himself a thousand times - repeated over and over what the Bible has to say about vengeance a thousand more, and yet, when he can no longer endure his situation - when he finally takes matters into his own hands, it is not fear for himself that drives him. It is not pain, or the horror he feels at being imprisoned for the crime of wanting to do what is right. No - the emotion that floods him, that moves him to action, that lands him on the floor, holding his chained wrists around the bastard orderly’s throat while he chokes and flails, is raw, unadulterated fury.

It is not anger for himself. That, he could have handled. No. If, he thinks distantly, the man had only threatened Thomas - if he had only hurt Thomas -

The men who work here are a varied lot. They must be - Thomas knows it intellectually, and yet somehow (no - not somehow, he  _ knows  _ how) he has managed to be assigned to one that seems to take delight in pain - his and that of others here. He has seen it in the man’s eyes. Worse - he has heard the man speak, and it has been all Thomas can do not to be ill at every word, every gesture - every awful, disgusting thing that comes out of the man’s mouth. Today -

Today he cannot keep himself from shaking, from curling in on himself as the onslaught begins.

“I can see why you’ve kept your lieutenant around all this time,” the man tells him. He’s too close to Thomas - always, always too close, whispering things at him that would break lesser men, close enough that Thomas can smell his breath. “He begs so prettily - but then you would know, wouldn’t you?” 

Thomas looks up, horror in his gaze, unable to speak. This is worse than usual. He does not know what has set the man off, but there is an unholy gleam in his eyes, a twist to his lips that Thomas is sickened to recognize even as he starts to process the man’s sentence. He cannot mean -

“The bruises,” he goes on, “oh, the bruises looked so nice. And the blood -” The man stops for a moment, licking his lips, and Thomas is tired, but not so tired that his damned active imagination cannot torment him with the image of James, beaten and bloodied and uttering broken pleas for mercy while this monster revels in his pain. 

“Stop,” he begs, and the man grins. 

“If he keeps begging so nicely, I might have to take him up on some of what he offers.”

The words send a chill down Thomas’ spine. He is sitting on the bed, his hands chained in front of him, and he cannot tell - cannot tell if the man is lying or not, cannot be certain, but the idea is horrifying. 

“He hasn’t eaten in three days,” the orderly goes on, and Thomas can feel his stomach turn. He is hungry - he is always hungry in this place, but they feed him, at least. But James - dear god, what the hell are they doing to him?

“He’ll be starving by the time I give him his ration - desperate. I can’t do it to you but I can do it to him and I will again,” the man tells Thomas, and Thomas cannot stop looking at his hands - his large, rough hands with short, blunt fingernails under which Thomas can see blood.

James’ blood. He looks up at the orderly, meets his eyes for the first time since the early days when he had learnt the hard way never to make eye contact with these people, and sees the terrifying glee there. 

“There’s nothing you can do to stop it. I can go to his cell now and make him scream and you can’t do anything -” 

There, Thomas thinks, is where the man was wrong. In what feels like another life, Thomas might have pled for James’ safety. Might have offered his own in exchange. Might have cajoled and persuaded, and some part of him wants to, the man that has not been listening to this litany of horrors for three weeks - the part that is still Thomas as he was, but the Thomas who is sitting here in this cell is another man entirely, and that man has absolutely no qualms about what he is about to do. It takes him all of three seconds to cut off the orderly’s sickening monologue, the chains wrapping around his throat, and Thomas allows himself to fall back onto the floor, his feet unsteady beneath him, and they cannot be kicked out from under him if he is not standing. The orderly struggles, and Thomas unthinkingly tightens his grip. Part of him is screaming in horror, but the rest of his mind is clear. He cannot offer his safety for James’ - not to this man, at least. He cannot offer because whatever he does, it will not be enough - he has no leverage. He has no way of ensuring that the deal will be honored, and beyond that, if half the things this vile excuse for a human being has told him about what he has done to James are true -

There are starburst marks up and down Thomas’ arms from the bleedings they have subjected him to, scabbed over but still painful when he exerts himself so much as to push up from the bed. They ache from the force he is exerting, small points of agony that he ignores resolutely, like the treacherous, traitorous part of him that is babbling in terror at the very thought of carrying out an act such as this one - one that will see him hanged or worse, “treated” for an excess of bile or choler or whichever humor they have decided drives men to commit murder so that they may ignore the true cause of his lack of care for this particular human life. He squeezes, and swallows against the lump that rises in his throat at the realization that he has reached this point - this point where murder no longer seems like a heinous act, a non-starter, an incomprehensible evil, not in comparison with the evil this man will do to James if he is allowed to leave this cell intact. He squeezes all the more determinedly, and says nothing, his aching muscles made of steel and his heart slowly turning to stone within him even as it pumps furiously, rage giving him strength he never would have suspected himself of having. 

They stop him, but not before the orderly has stopped flailing and gasping for breath. He might live, Thomas thinks distantly. He has no practical knowledge of such things, but he rather thinks that he may at least have done permanent damage. The knowledge should be satisfying, and instead all he feels is relief. This man cannot hurt James again - cannot hurt anyone again, cannot whisper in Thomas’ ear ever, ever again. 

He should be horrified, he registers as the world swirls around him. The commotion that has been raised is truly deafening, and he is buffeted this way and that, bashed about the head and shoulders until he releases his grip. He should be truly, absolutely appalled at himself, and perhaps, somewhere under the thrumming in his veins that accompanies this uncharacteristic act, he is. Perhaps, but he is grateful that he does not feel it yet, as it enables him to rise to his feet, calm and composed, even as the orderlies begin to pull at him, begin to lock his hands behind him, shock on their faces. It is not horror, certainly, that helps him, an hour later when his father’s man arrives, to meet the other man’s eyes, to see the fear in them, and to ignore it utterly. It is certainly not what keeps his voice level when he does elect to speak, the cold tone surprising him even as he disguises the shaking of his hands behind him by balling them into fists.

“Take me to James,” he demands. “Take me to him, or I will do worse to the next man who enters this cell, by whatever means necessary. Tell Lord Ashbourne - unless he wishes to see me hanged, he will allow me to dictate the terms of an agreement between us.” 

It is not until later, when the man has gone, that Thomas allows himself to collapse against the floor, shaking like a leaf in a rainstorm, and not until an hour later, when they have rebound his hands in front of him with a much shorter chain, that he can use his small ration of water for the day to wipe the blood from his hands. He cannot help but feel that he is wiping away some part of himself as he does so - and yet -

“The man you attacked like a damned savage will live,” Alfred tells him, and he cannot help but feel equal parts relief and disappointment. “You have made your point.”

“I thought I might have,” Thomas tells him. He was not out to make a point when he had wrapped his chains around the man’s neck - that had never been his object, he had aimed to kill, but let Alfred think what he will. Thomas is long past the point of correcting his father if the older man’s assumptions are going to aid Thomas in his quest to protect James.  

“Your terms?” Alfred asks. There is a thundercloud hanging above his head, or so it seems, and yet Thomas can see the spark of fear in his eyes too. He cannot regret this - cannot regret seeing this expression on Alfred’s wrinkled face, just once before he speaks the words that will seal his own fate. 

“You will allow me to speak with James - to spend the night with him, in his cell. In the morning, you will release him entirely,” he says, and he is proud of the way that his voice does not shake, despite the cold, despite the fear that fills him at what he is about to do - what he is about to risk. “You will allow this, or the next time there will be no saving me from the gallows, or yourself from the shame.”

He knows what he is doing. He knows about the plantation in the New World that Alfred has contacted. He knows that he, not James, will be the one sent there, and he knows that in the face of the torment that James is going through right now, whatever Thomas faces on that plantation will be worth it. He will not have James kept as leverage against him. He will not acquiesce to his father’s demands and watch James be sent to that plantation, to be tortured at whim whenever Alfred decides that Thomas has not obeyed his wishes closely enough. This ends now. The thought comes with an odd sense of relief. One way or another, this is about to be over.

“Do we have an agreement?” 

Alfred looks at him.

“You don’t have the spine for it,” he spits, and Thomas stands, straight and tall in a way he has not in a month, and looks his father in the eye. 

“Look at me,” he says. “Look at where we are. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t believe I’ll hold my ground.” 

His threat is not empty, and the Earl knows it. It is, Thomas thinks, possibly the first time that Alfred has looked at him - truly  _ looked  _ at him, and understood the first thing about him, and God how much he wishes it had been anything but this, and so many years earlier. He can see the understanding in Alfred’s eyes - the only feature they share, and then Alfred nods, once, sharply and Thomas breathes a sigh of relief internally. 

“From the moment you leave England, you will be dead to the world,” Alfred tells him. “I will not have you turning up again to vex me. If you attempt to sway me in this fashion once you have arrived at Oglethorpe’s plantation -”

“I understand,” Thomas answers. He will be on his own - disowned, denied - no longer Thomas Hamilton, merely another nameless convict worker who will pay the penalty if he causes trouble. Alfred nods, once, and then he signals the orderlies that he is ready to leave. Thomas watches him walk away, fully conscious of the fact that they will never meet again, and hopes that Miranda will forgive him one day. He cannot allow this to continue. He cannot allow Alfred to lay his foul hands on James again even by proxy, and if Thomas must change to save him - if he must do this-

He looks down at his hands and takes a deep breath, ignoring the blood that still clings to his nail beds. Pain, he has always been told, is a great teacher. He has never believed it until today, and he wonders what the pain to come very soon will succeed in teaching him about himself.

He wonders how much of himself will be left by the time he has learned. 

*************************************************

The first indication James has that something has changed is usually the food.

There is, he knows, a war raging outside his cell. He cannot see it. The inside of his prison remains the same day in and day out. He has no news in the two weeks that follow Admiral Hennessey’s visit - no letters, no late night whispers at his door, and yet he knows of it all the same. The proof of it lies in the shifting nature of his confinement - in the nights he spends lying as still as humanly possible, more bruise than man, in the other nights when he finds himself mercifully left to heal, in the days when the food simply does not come, and in others when he is given warm oatmeal and bread and clear, fresh water to drink. He can tell when Miranda is winning - when, if her letter is to be believed, she and Admiral Hennessey have managed to win someone over to their side, someone who can pay to see him treated well or at the very least left the hell alone by the bastards Alfred has enlisted to “cure” him of that part of his nature which society at large finds so very offensive.

Miranda has not been winning very often lately. James huddles in the corner of his cell, his arms covered in the starburst marks that are left by the artificial leech that they have been using on him with alarming regularity of late. He hurts - every inch of him, it seems, has a mark of some kind or other, whether bruises or punctures, and the loss of blood has succeeded once again in making him dizzy. He is currently sitting on the straw mattress they have provided him, legs held close to his chest, shivering like mad. He does not want to get blood on the blanket - he has been meticulously careful about that so far, and the bleeding wound on his right forearm placed there not half an hour earlier is sufficient cause for him to eschew the comfort of the blanket at the moment, even as he longs to curl up under it and be warm. He will have at least one clean, good thing that does not smell like this place - one thing that reminds him that he is not the hopelessly mad wretch they have tried to force him to believe that he is. He is James McGraw, and it does not matter what they do to him, he will not be broken by this place. If he can control this one thing - just this, perhaps he can maintain the mental fortitude he will need to stay sane. He will not fail Miranda by allowing her to go to all this effort to rescue him only to bring home a mere husk, devoid of that which makes him who he is. He resolutely ignores the part of him that asks how many men and women here had made just such a resolution, only to become the source of the endless wailing and screaming that echoes through the halls at all hours. He will not join their number. He will not - nor will Thomas.

Thomas. He shuts his eyes at the thought of his lover, allowing his head to fall back against the stone wall. He wonders if Thomas is enduring the same treatment. The thought of his lover alone - covered in the same newly-forming scars, shivering, hungry and frightened - 

It’s the stuff of nightmares. James raises a hand to rake it over his hair at the mental image. They have stopped shaving his head every two weeks, at least - it is a small improvement, especially now when the nights are growing still colder and the wetness making its way through his unenclosed, narrow window has begun to be snow rather than rain. He hopes that someone has bribed them to give Thomas the same kindness - that his blond locks are growing back out, that he has done the sensible thing and broken down under pressure and gotten the hell out of here. Surely, his father must want something of him - he would not have visited otherwise, indeed - he would not have left James alive, and James can only pray that Thomas has the sense to bend rather than breaking.

It’s a pipe dream and he knows it. Thomas won’t break. His lover is many things - handsome, kind, clear-sighted - and stubborn, so stubborn that James wonders that Admiral Hennessey had ever accused James himself of the same. Stubbornness, he thinks, is not James’ arguments with Hennessey in the privacy of his office at Whitehall, with no ears to hear their differences of opinion, few though they have been. Stubbornness is Thomas Hamilton, standing in his dining room denying one of the most powerful men in Britain in the name of what is good and right. Stubbornness is his lover hurling abuse at that same man in Bedlam when it could earn him the lash or worse. Stubbornness -

There are footsteps in the corridor outside, and light, and James looks to the door. Stubbornness, he realizes as the door opens, has just been brought to his cell, blond hair that is slowly regrowing just like James’ own slightly askew, and blue eyes harder than he has ever seen them, glaring daggers at the men who stand on either side of him.

“Release him from those shackles,” Thomas orders. His voice is hoarse but no less authoritative for that. His face is thin - terribly so, the gauntness of it only barely hidden by the beard that is starting to cover his jaw, and yet James thinks it is probably less so than his own. Thomas’ open shirt neck, James with great relief, does not leave bare the marks of the kind of abuse that James has endured. He is grateful for that - he has feared what Alfred might do to his son in order to teach him a lesson, but it appears the hateful bastard has confined himself to tormenting James as a method of bringing Thomas to heel.

A method that seems to have worked, judging by the anguish that flickers through Thomas’ eyes as he looks at James for the first time in a month. He does not kneel at James’ side - not yet. He turns back to his captors, and holds out his hands, wordlessly waiting for the chains binding them to be released. There is impatience on his face, and anger - simmering anger of a sort that James is startled to see in him.

“Your father’s orders were for you to spend the night. Not -” one of the men starts to say, and to James’ surprise and relief, Thomas does not shrink away from him, but rather steps forward.

“My father’s orders were to allow me to spend the night in this cell with Lieutenant McGraw, on my terms, and I’m certain you remember what those are. Would you like to volunteer to be the one to break the deal?” he asks. There is a barely-veiled threat in his voice and the man steps back, looking suddenly uneasy while James looks on, shocked. He barely notices when the manacles are removed from his own wrists save to hiss in pain at the touch of the gaoler’s hands on his raw, bloody skin - he is too focused on his lover and on the cold, horrible something that has worked its way into Thomas’ tone - into his eyes, which are burning with fury. The sound draws Thomas’ attention, and he turns, eyes lighting on James again. There is the same flicker of pain - horrifying pain, revealing for a brief second the man James loves beneath the furious mask, and then he turns back to his father’s man, waiting while the lackey removes his shackles and then staring the man down deliberately. “I will have the night uninterrupted, do you understand me?” he asks quietly, the same awful, snarling, overt hostility in his voice, and the man nods quickly.

“Yes, my lord,” he answers, and Thomas takes a deep breath.

“Excellent,” he answers, and looks away from the other man’s face.  “James,” Thomas says, and the name is balm to James’ ears after a month of separation, “I hope you don’t mind the company. I’ve brought my own blanket  - I didn’t wish to impose.” He walks through the doorway, for all the world as if he were walking through the doorway of James’ rented apartment, and James starts to rise.

“Thomas-” he starts, and Thomas gives him a smile that is tremulous but genuine. 

“Hello my love,” he says softly, and then James is moving forward, wrapping his arms around Thomas as tightly as he can with his abused shoulder muscles shaking and hurting. Thomas’ shoulder muffles the sob that leaves him as he does so, and Thomas raises his arms, holding onto James carefully, as if he knows about the bruises on James’ back. The door shuts behind Thomas, the bolt is thrown, and then they are alone, the footsteps moving away again indicating that the guards have obeyed Thomas’ instructions. James inhales, breathing in the scent of Thomas that is hidden beneath the reek of Bedlam. Someone, he notes, has given Thomas fresh clothing sometime recently, and evidently allowed him to bathe, which is more than James can say for himself, and he releases Thomas quickly, ashamed at the state that he is in.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “God - if I had known they were bringing you here -” 

“You would presumably have asked the rats to bring fresh straw,” Thomas says, a choked laugh escaping him, and James cannot help it - he laughs as well.

“You should know,” he says, and Thomas gives him a grin. “My God,” James says, “I’ve missed you. Thomas - how -?” 

Thomas’ smile fades instantly. His hands tighten on James’ shoulders painfully, and he swallows hard.

“James -” he starts, and James’ brow furrows, concern welling up in him. 

“Thomas -” he starts, and for the first time since he arrived, James looks Thomas up and down properly. There is something different in him, he realizes - something about the way he holds himself, as if he might break apart any moment. His thin face is haggard, his blond hair duller than James has seen it before, and there is a shaking in his hands that James does not recognize. Thomas, he suddenly understands, is not half as close to being alright as James thought, and quite suddenly he feels cold, not from the frigid temperature of the asylum but from the realization that in some measure, small or large, Thomas is hurt and Alfred has won. 

“What have they done?” he asks, and Thomas releases a small, mirthless laugh.

“Not quite the question, but close,” he answers, and James feels another chill run down his spine. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather reckless. You’re wearing off on me.” Thomas’ tone is still light, but the tremulousness has reached his voice now, and there is misery in his eyes as he looks at James, as if he might never have the sight of him again, and suddenly James understands. 

“Thomas - what the hell is going on?” he asks, urgency imbuing his voice with a sharp tone he is not accustomed to taking with Thomas. “What have you done?” 

*******************************************************************************

_ Hampstead:  _

“We are running out of options.” 

The words are uttered in the privacy of Admiral Hennessey’s study, where Miranda sits, resting against the back of one of his chairs in a most unbecoming, unladylike fashion, her head tilted backward, a glass of something that is distinctly not wine sitting in front of her, half-consumed. It is the third one tonight - the decanter sits on the desk before them, and Hennessey, she believes, is on at least his third glass. The fire in the hearth is crackling away merrily, and she feels none of the cheer that such a sight is meant to inspire. 

Hennessey shakes his head.

“We are not  _ running _ out of options,” he answers, and she raises her head and one eyebrow at the same time. The older man reaches for the decanter, pours himself another glass, and raises it. “We are out of options altogether,” he clarifies, his tone acerbic, and Miranda allows her head to fall backward again. 

“A single piece of paper,” she muses bitterly.

“Beg pardon?” 

She sits up, her face knitted into a scowl.

“A single piece of paper is all it would take to see my family reunited with me, and I find that the one man in England who has the power to issue that trifling scrap of paper is the one man I cannot bribe, threaten, or cajole into doing as I ask, and all because -” Her voice has started to shake, now, and she won’t have that. She reaches forward, downs the rest of her drink, and looks up to meet Hennessey’s eyes. They look, she thinks, surprisingly sympathetic for a man who only weeks ago all but threw her out of his home. “Apologies, Admiral. I don’t mean to be belligerent.” 

Hennessey gives her a snort.

“I have known James since he was nine years old,” he answers. “You do not truly imagine that I would call belligerence anything short of the brawls he used to become involved with?” 

“He cannot have been all that much of a chore,” Miranda answers, and Hennessey snorts. “Surely getting into fights so often as you imply would have damaged his career?”

Hennessey shakes his head.

“More than you would credit,” he says. “He seldom started an altercation, but by God once he  _ had _ been assaulted there wasn’t a force on God’s green earth that could stop him from finishing one. I spent half of his career as a midshipman attempting to smooth ruffled feathers among the families of arrogant young gentlemen who had never received a fist to the gut for their effrontery before and the other half trying to impress upon James that there are merits to being less direct when solving a dilemma.” He picks up the glass at his fingertips and swirls the liquid in it, staring at it pensively for a moment before replacing it on the desk carefully, as if he is none too sure of his own depth perception or afraid of breaking the glass. “I have spent all these years trying to teach James, and I fear all I have accomplished is to reinforce the notion upon myself.” He frowns. “Have I ever told you, Lady Hamilton, of the last prize I took before I became an admiral?” 

She shakes her head. She is not certain where Hennessey is going with this, but it is a welcome distraction from the bleakness of her thoughts, and she would much rather picture James healthy and happy than in Bedlam. 

“I say that I took it - what I truly mean is that I attempted to take the ship and James prevented a catastrophe from occurring that would have sunk the prize and likely taken a number of our men with it.” He sits forward. “It was off the Barbary coast.”

The Admiral, Miranda thinks, seems more alive, somehow, when he is discussing his livelihood. It is not that he has been without energy, these past weeks - far from it. The restlessness, the anger that has been of necessity targetless, the frustration she has sensed from him matches her own, and yet it has been leashed and muzzled - restrained, and she has wondered if this is what James will be, one day. She finds the notion disturbing, somehow - James is made of different fiber, and yet now, listening to Hennessey talk, she has found something similar in their mannerisms. Hennessey’s manner becomes somehow different when he is discussing battle - when he describes the enemy they faced, the maneuvering of the ship, the battle that had followed.

“- the damned barbarians had nearly surrendered,” Hennessey is saying, “or so I thought. Their captain had been downed. Their mast stood in pitiful shape - I could see their boards buckling, it was leaning so badly. I could see their men standing on deck, weapons dropped. When they ran up a white flag, I thought nothing of it. I ordered boarding hooks out, all the usual manner of commands when a ship has been taken -” He pauses. “I should have seen it. Any other day, I might have done - I don’t know what had come over me on that one. Perhaps I simply wished to be done with the whole affair, but -” 

“Seen what?” Miranda is frowning now, and Hennessey gives her a wry glance. 

“If you are to learn one thing, and one thing only, about James, please let it be this - he has a keen eye for detail and an unparalleled instinct for trouble. It was all that saved our lives that day. We were pulling alongside when I heard it - two shots. They rang out from below - from my own guns, as it happened, the twelve pounders. The balls went straight through the enemy’s hull below decks but above the waterline.” He pauses. “We had been prepared to board. We would have gone aboard that ship, believing all hands remaining to have been standing on deck, believing ourselves the victors, and we would have been slaughtered, for the moment those shots went through the hull, their hatch was flung open and the remainder of their fighting forces came boiling up on deck, two score strong, and their gun ports opened again. I heard our guns fire again, and by the time I had time to wonder who had given the orders, the battle was won and we were standing on the deck of my newest prize.” He takes a drink. “It was James, of course. He has always been an unparalleled shot, cannon or pistol or what have you, it makes little difference. In my arrogance, I thought the battle could be won with little effort, by ordinary means. Without James -” He shakes his head and sits forward. “When you have children, Lady Hamilton, you teach them things, you raise them to a trade, acquaint them with the world, but you also learn  _ from _ them. At present, I find myself asking a question I should have asked some weeks ago. What would James do?” 

She grimaces.

“I doubt that will be of much use to us at present, Admiral. Given the chance, James would likely -” She stops, looking at Hennessey. “No,” she breathes. “You cannot mean to -”

“Your father-in-law has stood in our way quite long enough, I do believe,” Hennessey answers her, and she feels any tipsiness she had been experiencing evaporate in the blink of an eye.

“You can’t,” she insists, pushing herself up out of her chair even as Hennessey does the same. “In order to authorize James’ and Thomas’ release from Bedlam, he must be -”

“The orders must have his seal on them,” Hennessey answers. He is pulling on his cloak, reaching for his hat, readying himself to leave. “That seal, I believe is kept in his office, is it not?” 

“Yes, but -” 

“Excellent. I will need you to make the arrangements - we will need to leave tonight, immediately. Speak with my aide - he will assist you in finding a ship. I anticipate we will have perhaps an hour between my visit to Lord Ashbourne and the time we must be on our way. I will fetch them from Bethlem and meet you there.”

“How do you expect to walk away from this? Provided that Alfred will even see you, you will need to write out the orders, seal them, and walk out before anyone realizes what you’ve done. This cannot possibly -” 

“Do you see any other way?” Hennessey has turned back to face her, and the expression on his face is set - a man who has decided on his course of action. “Do you truly believe that anything less will see my son and your husband released from that reeking hellhole?” 

She hesitates for a moment. She has tried so many ways - bribed and threatened and promised, and all for nothing. She is here, most of the way through a decanter of brandy, because she could not think of another avenue, another method, another person to appeal to. She shakes her head, and Hennessey nods firmly. 

“Then it is time to try the more direct method. I will see off Lord Ashbourne. You make certain our escape. I will meet you in two hours, in front of Bethlem Royal Hospital.” 

He turns, heading out the door, on his way to kill Alfred Hamilton, and Miranda watches him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Hennessey and Miranda to the rescue!
> 
> Edit: There is now art for this chapter! @bereweillschmidtdoodles drew this, and I have to say, I really, really love it!
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/p/Baq3qL5D5jb/


	5. Chapter 5

“I won’t let them take you.”

It’s the first thing out of his mouth when Thomas tells him what he’s done - when he tells him the deal that has been struck, right after the shock and the horror at what Thomas proposes to go through for James’ sake. It is the only thought that makes any sense - the only possible way that this can go, because Thomas cannot - cannot - mean to separate them permanently like this. He cannot. He simply, absolutely cannot. James sits forward, taking hold of his lover’s hand. They have elected to sit on the floor next to one another, with James’ blanket around them and Thomas’ stuffed into the small, open window to keep out some of the draft. The warmth created by the combination of the blankets and the added body heat is enough to make James determined never to let Thomas leave ever again, if he were not already hell-bent on killing anyone who tries to take the man he loves away from him.

“James,” Thomas argues softly, “ - you’re half dead as it is. You can’t fight them and expect not to be grievously hurt in the process. I won’t allow it.”

James looks straight into his eyes, and Thomas stops, startled by what he sees.

“Watch me,” he answers. There is steel in his tone - steel that makes Thomas stare at him, steel that rings in every word. “I’ll stop them. You can’t do this, Thomas, I won’t let you -”

“James, I have no desire to watch you die!” Thomas’ voice has risen, and James stares. It is the first such occurrence that he can recall - the first time that Thomas has ever shouted at him, about anything, and he is horrified.

“Thomas -” he starts, and Thomas reaches out, cupping James’ face with one hand.

“James,” he says urgently, “look at yourself. Look at what they’ve done to you. This all happened because of me - because of my damned pride and stubbornness and my naive belief that my father would not truly act to bring me to heel in this fashion. Can you not find even a spark of anger in your heart - enough to let me do this for you?”

It’s an excellent question. A year ago, if any man had told him that he would allow himself to be kept in Bedlam for the sake of someone else besides Hennessey, he might have told that man to go fuck himself. But now -

“No,” he answers, and his voice is rough, gravelly with emotion, with the despair coursing through him. “No, I can’t. You can call me a fool if you like. Go on, do it.”

“You’re not a fool,” Thomas tells him, his voice shaking, “you’re not funny enough for it,” and James releases Thomas’ hands with one of his, wrapping it instead around the back of Thomas’ head, bringing his lover in closer, their foreheads bumping together as he does so.

“I _am_ a fool,” he answers, “but I am _your_ fool and I’ll be damned for it before I let them take you from me. Thomas -”

“How are you going to stop them?” Thomas asks, and James shakes his head.

“I don’t know. Somehow. I’m not going to sit here while they take you away to some fucking plantation in the New World to be their slave, that’s for damned sure.”

“I’ll hardly be treated as abominably as -”

“They won’t be putting you there so you can debate philosophy and drink tea!” James snaps. “For God’s sake, Thomas, there must be another way!” _You’re going to get yourself killed,_ he thinks, but does not say. His lover is frightened enough - he can see it in the line of his spine, feel it in the way that his hand trembles in James’, hear it in his voice though he is doing an admirable job of trying to hide it. Thomas is terrified, and James is terrified for him, because God help him he cannot see another way out of this that does not leave Thomas in even worse straits or James himself imprisoned here for the rest of his days. More to the point - he does not know how he can possibly change the situation now that the deal has been struck.

“I do not intend to stay for long.” Thomas’ tone is determined, his eyes shining in the darkness, and James stares at his face. “I have a lover who is an accomplished mariner,” he says, his voice trembling only a little, “and a former military man. I trust him. I trust you.”

James feels the breath leave his chest.

“You’re risking everything on one hell of a gamble,” he tells Thomas, and his lover squeezes his hand.

“Better a gamble than no chance at all. Please, James - trust me, just one more time. I got us into this. With a little help, I can get us out again.”

“Miranda and Hennessey are still trying.” The words sound feeble - hopeless, even to James’ ears. Thomas does not answer - simply wraps his arms around James, burying his face in James’ shoulder, and James ignores the pain the action causes to do the same to Thomas.

“Then let us hope that they are about to work miracles,” Thomas murmurs. “Tell them -” He stops, taking a deep breath. He shakes his head. “Don’t tell Miranda I was frightened,” he whispers, and James holds onto him all the tighter.

************************************

He has come to commit murder.

The carriage pulls away into the street, leaving Hennessey to stand on the doorstep, and he takes a deep breath. A breath in. A breath out. His hands clench at his sides, and he swallows hard. He is here -

He is here to set matters to rights. It is what he must tell himself - what he must believe if he is to do this, and the longer he stands in the cold, the more he knows himself to be in the right. The night is a bitter one - the wind blows and cuts right through him and there is not a cloud to be seen in the sky. He is cold - not half so freezing, though, as James must be on a night like this one and yet there is a chill that has settled into his bones. He welcomes it - the stifling air of his study has given form to this idea but it is the frozen reality of the night that has truly set it in his mind. This season is hell, even for Hennessey, tucked away snugly most of the day and night in either his home or his office in Whitehall. James and Thomas will be frozen half to the marrow, imprisoned as they are in stone cells without so much as a pane of glass between them and the elements - and Alfred Hamilton, may his soul rot in Hell, sits ensconced in the manse before him, his gout no doubt tended by at least two manservants and the finest doctors money can buy. He will be warm, and comfortable, while two men both individually worth a hundred of Alfred are most likely wondering why it is that Hennessey has not done more to see them both safely home.

Or, rather, one of them. The other, the man that Hennessey still cannot help but think of as his own son regardless of blood or upbringing, likely has stopped expecting better of the world, and that thought alone burns. He has failed James in the worst possible way, and it is because of the man currently sitting in the mansion that stands before him. He has broken his son’s spirit, trampled on his hopes, likely sent the boy right back to where he began in regards to his faith in his own judgment, and it is all the fault of Alfred _god damned_ Hamilton.

The situation cannot stand. There is no force in the world that can turn him back now that he has decided upon the solution, not name or reputation or fortune or glory. None of that has done him a single jot of good in the past month - none of the practiced patience or the connections he has built, none of the utter manure he has been forced to wade through these many years, insult after indignity all to reach this point, and for what? So that he may lose the only person in the world he cares to name as family? So that he can watch the boy he raised so carefully be trod underfoot, treated like nothing more than a bloody Irish commoner upstart?

No. He will not countenance it - not this time. He is not a man given to violence, but the sheer gall of the fourth Earl of Ashbourne sets his blood singing, begging for the kind of violence he intends to indulge in tonight. One way or the other, Alfred Hamilton will cease to terrorize the Navy. He will answer for his crimes, and if the British legal system will not see it done, then by God, Hennessey will. He moves forward, steps firm, mind made up. He will see this through, now, tonight, with no more hesitation. James will not spend another night imprisoned for the crime of telling a Lord where to stuff his bloody English arrogance, and Hennessey will not spend another night pretending to be one of the arbiters of his right to do so, or what the _hell_ has he been fighting for all these years?

It takes only moments for him to be shown into the house. The Earl, he tells the man at the door, is expecting him, or should be, and dear God, does the man not _know?_ The manufactured emergency sees him through the door - surprise and alarm, Hennessey has often discovered, will invariably set men to scurrying about, and the manservant at the door is no different. Hennessey spares a moment to feel sorry for the poor innocent fool - he bears the look of a man hunted, and little wonder, given who his master is. Still more reason, then, to see tonight’s task completed, the world rid of such monsters as Alfred, and while he is here -

“Admiral?” The servant’s voice at his elbow brings him out of his musings and he stands. The first lesson imparted by the Service, he thinks - never stand when you may sit, never sit when you may lie down, never run when walking is an option, and tonight of all nights, he will need his strength. “Lord Ashbourne will see you now.” He nods. The time for caution is ended. Now, it is time to light off a cannon and see if the battle may not be won through force.

*****************************************

Men, Miranda thinks, are impulsive idiots one and all.

Another day, she thinks, might just possibly have benefited them all. One more day to gather their things. One more day to, for example, engage a ship to take them all out of here at a reasonable price. Instead -

“You may tell the captain that I will pay him three hundred pounds to set sail tonight and take aboard four passengers. He is not to ask questions, and the passengers are not to be disturbed under any circumstances save dire emergency until the ship’s destination is reached. Do you understand?”

Hennessey’s aide looks at her with wide eyes, and she resists the urge to shake the man.

“Do you understand?” she repeats, and the man shakes his head.

“I - Lady Hamilton, I don’t -” he starts. There are dark circles beneath the man’s eyes - he has been working fully as hard as she and Hennessey, she realizes, and takes a deep breath. Panic of any sort will not be helpful, and there is little point in terrifying the man.

“The Admiral and I find ourselves in urgent need of a means to leave London - quietly, tonight,” she explains more patiently. “He will be closing his household here, as will I. I am prepared to pay both you and the captain of any ship you can find who is willing to leave London tonight a sizable sum in exchange for your silence and aid.”

“My lady -” the aide starts, and Miranda feels despair well up in her. This must work - there is no other option. Something in her expression seems to rouse the man’s mind to consciousness, and he recoils slightly, taken aback. “I -” he starts, and then clears his throat. “I - will see to it,” he croaks, and Miranda feels relief wash over her. “I - assume you do not wish to board a Navy vessel,” he continues, and she shakes her head.

“If at all possible we should like to avoid it, yes,” she confirms, and the aide nods.

“And the destination?”

“Find me a ship that is bound away from England, and I shall board it,” she answers. “We will concern ourselves with its destination at a later date, so long as it is not headed ‘round the Cape of Good Hope.” She can hear the short temper in her own voice, but she cannot rein it in - not when her stomach is currently doing flips within her and her hands are only steady because she has clasped them in front of her so that they may not shake. She is running out of time - they all are, and she can feel the minutes tick past. It has been three quarters of an hour - time enough for Hennessey to reach her father-in-law’s home. If all has gone to plan -

*********************************************

_Alfred Hamilton’s home:_

“- cannot for the life of me fathom why in the hell you’ve seen fit to come a-visiting.” Alfred Hamilton’s voice is sharp with irritation. “Surely, any matter that has arisen may wait until the morning. The hour is entirely unsuitable. If this is your idea of a joke -”

Hennessey straightens, his hands firmly clasped behind his back. The fire crackles in the hearth, the wooden floor creaks beneath Alfred’s feet, and Hennessey has never, in his entire career, felt less prepared to end a man’s life.

“Anything but, my lord.” He is hesitating - he knows it, curses himself for it, and yet -

Damn it all, he is not a murderer. Perhaps there is still a way -?

Alfred sits down behind his desk, folding his hands in front of him and leaning back in his chair.

“Very well. What is it you wished to tell me?”

“I have come,” Hennessey says, “to discuss the fate of my protegé.” He has tried everything - but not this. Not a direct appeal. Perhaps the man may still be persuaded. Perhaps he has allowed himself to believe his cause lost before it truly has been. Perhaps -

Alfred waves a hand.

“It is no longer your concern,” he answers, and Hennessey feels his hands clench around the arms of his chair. “My son will be shipped off tomorrow morning, and his sodomite lover will be -”

“The boy has a name,” Hennessey snaps, and Alfred pauses, a look of surprise flashing across his face.

“He is a pillow-biter and an Irishman, hardly worthy of your time, Admiral. As I was saying - they are to be moved. My son will be shipped to the New World where he will cease to make trouble, and the erstwhile Lieutenant will be -”

Hennessey feels anticipation run through him. He has come here to do murder, but this sounds as if -

“I would be much obliged, my lord, if you would release him to me,” he says carefully, and Alfred stares incredulously at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Earl scoffs. “If I were to release him I would have the damned Irish nuisance in my office the following day, prepared to slit my throat. He will be transferred to a private institution where he may be kept contained.”

Anticipation dies a swift death, buried in a shallow grave, and Hennessey sits, a sick feeling running through him. This is not freedom for James. This is not mercy. This -

This is the reason he has come here tonight.

“I suppose it is just as well that you’ve come, as I would ask whether you have a preference as to the location of his confinement,” Alfred is saying. “I should prefer somewhere out of the way - and inexpensive. Have you any thoughts on the matter?”

“Tell me, my lord - have I ever mentioned where I spent the vast majority of my boyhood?”

Hennessey’s voice sounds almost foreign to his ears. There is something hard and cold there - something that he is not in the practice of using, something that he has not allowed himself to feel in years. It curls around his ribcage, constricting his heart and clenching his fists at his sides. He has forgotten this feeling, almost, and he wishes to God that he had remembered it sooner. It is the very thing he has chided James about, given slightly different form. It is another thing he must apologize to his son for, the moment that he is free. Hennessey leans forward, and Alfred frowns.

“What the devil does that have to do with anything?” he barks, and Hennessey stands. This task, he thinks detachedly, will be better done without a desk between them. He moves toward the fireplace and looks into it.

“I had four sisters, once,” he says. “My mother and father had the devil’s own time of it, trying to keep us occupied. We used to spend our days in the stables or on horseback more often than not - one of the benefits of my father’s occupation as a horse master.”

Alfred is frowning even more thunderously now.

“Come to the blasted point,” he snaps. “What are you driving at?”

“The estate my father worked on,” Hennessey says in a brittle tone, “was a small one, and the position was hereditary. Nine generations of my family were born, labored, and died there. It was located in Kerry.”

The word crosses his lips, and he sees comprehension flash across the Earl’s face, seconds before Hennessey begins to move. He has brought a knife with him; it glints in the firelight as he steps toward Alfred. The Earl rises from his chair, alarm beginning to register on his face. He begins to open his mouth, begins to shout, but it is too late. There is a brief struggle, and then Hennessey is behind the Earl, the knife pressed firmly against his throat.

“I believe, _my lord_ , that you can understand why I do not appreciate your comments on my son,” he hisses, and Alfred gives a gurgle. When Hennessey pulls the knife across his throat, he drops to the floor without a sound.

“Concerned with the wrong Irish nuisance,” Hennessey mutters. He drops the knife at Alfred’s side. There is little point to be had in carrying it - he has other places to be tonight. Speaking of which -

There is something to be said for Alfred and his diligent monitoring of every one of his many schemes, Hennessey has found. The man’s desk is a study in careful organization, and as such, his seal is exactly where one would expect it to be found. It takes Hennessey several moments to find a sample of the Earl’s handwriting, and several more to approximate it. Luckily, the man has already heated the wax - he has, he thinks, been extraordinarily lucky tonight, all in all. There is no blood on his clothing - he has been careful to avoid the pool of it that is forming beneath Alfred’s body, conveniently lying behind the man’s large desk. The smell will no doubt draw someone’s attention ere long, but Hennessey has every intention of being long gone before then - if, that is, he can succeed in affixing the seal without allowing his hands to begin shaking. At last, though, the document is in his hands, and he strides toward the door. He is still on schedule - barely, and the trip to Bethlem is likely to be a long, nerve-wracking one.

******************************************************************

“Yes, my lady.” The aide’s voice is commendably steady now that he has had a chance to wrap his mind around the concept that his employer has apparently taken leave of his senses - or rather, all sense of caution. His gaze is fixed on her, a concerned expression on his face, and truly, the man did not ask for this - for any of this.

“Philip,” she says, stepping forward. She lays a hand on the younger man’s arm, and he takes a step back, looking startled.

“M-my lady?” he stutters, and Miranda gives him what she can only imagine is more of a grimace than a smile.

“You will want to absent yourself from London for some time after this,” she cautions. “You are welcome to accompany us if -”

Philip shakes his head.

“No - no, my lady, I could not. That is - I should not -”

“Philip.” She does not release the younger man’s arm, and he meets her gaze, eyes wide. “There will be questions,” she says quietly. Philip stares at her for another moment and then -

“No, my lady,” he says. “I would prefer not to, if it is all the same. I will take my chances here.” She allows her hand to fall to her side, and nods.

“Of course.” She clears her throat, and Philip inclines his head.

“Ma’am.” He turns, and Miranda is left alone once again, the sound of the clock ticking echoing in her ears. She should go and hire a carriage now - the time of night may make finding one difficult.

There is still an hour to go.

********************************************************************

It is beginning to snow by the time he arrives at the hospital.

"Open the door, for heaven's sake!" He barks his orders at the startled orderly who greets him at the door.

"Sir - we are well past ordinary visiting hours and the Keeper has said -"

"I don't give a damn what the man has to say unless he's somehow acquired the authority to override the Earl of Ashbourne. I've come here tonight at his request - no, boy, there's no sense in taking my cloak, it's colder than a witch's teat in here. My God, have you no fires lit anywhere in this hospital?"

"The cold is thought to be beneficial to the patients, sir."

Hennessey snorts.

"And I suppose it is also reckoned beneficial when they are found several toes short in the morning after a night such as this. Well? You _can_ read, can you not?"

He gestures impatiently at the signed orders that he has handed the lad. This ruse depends on a great many things, but most of all, upon its swift execution and a certain lack of scrutiny. He is depending on inexperience and the Earl's fearsome reputation to earn him both. Mercifully, the orderly appears to be both tired and slightly on edge. He skims over the orders and visibly sags from relief, handing them back to Hennessey.

"Thank God, sir," he says with a sigh. "Allow me to inform the Keeper -"

The younger man's expression sends a frisson of alarm running through Hennessey, and he narrows his eyes.

"Is something amiss?" he asks, and the orderly stiffens again.

"It's not my place to -" he begins, and Hennessey's frown deepens.

"Spit it out, young man, I'm in no mood for the unexpected tonight." The orderly stares at him in what Hennessey strongly suspects is fear, and Hennessey sighs. Some men simply do not possess the constitution to be barked at, and he has evidently had the misfortune to encounter one such. “What has Mr. McGraw done that’s frightened the life out of you?” he asks with a touch more patience. The man is evidently pleased to be seeing the back end of both James and Thomas, and out of the two of them, if he had to wager which one has been causing havoc -

“I - wasn’t there, sir.” The orderly’s tone is apologetic. “I had really best allow the Keeper to explain -”

“Who has died?” he asks, and the orderly shakes his head.

“No one, sir - at least, not yet, although I don’t doubt that if Lord Hamilton got his hands on the man again -”

Hennessey freezes.

“Lord Hamilton?” he inquires in a voice he scarcely recognizes, and the orderly winces.

“The Keeper -” he starts, and Hennessey shakes his head.

“Take me to them at once.” There is a moment of hesitation, and Hennessey steps toward the younger man. “That is an order, sir!”

He refuses to contemplate what he has just heard - and yet he cannot help the shiver that runs down his spine as the orderly nods frantically and leads him further into the hospital.

***********************************************

Thomas tries not to count the hours.

“I never thought I would come to dread the dawn,” James murmurs, and Thomas cannot help but shudder at the words. Of course - that shudder could, he thinks, just as easily come from the cold that still pervades the cell.

“I’m told that Carolina is generally warm,” he tells James. “You’ll arrive to rescue me and come to envy me instead, living in such a place.”

He has managed up until now to keep himself fairly calm, but the longer the night stretches on, the more the thought of what they are about to face seeps through his consciousness. He is about to be sold. It is the only word for what his father is going to do to him, and the word eats through him. And James - he knows James. He knows his competence, his steady nature, the constancy of his love, and of Miranda’s. He knows his wife and his lover - and yet he worries. Miranda, he knows, will stop at nothing to bring him home to her, and James -

“Promise me,” he says, “that you won’t do anything reckless while I’m gone. James - promise me that you’ll take care of one another, you and Miranda.”

“Thomas -” James starts.

“Swear it now, to me,” Thomas demands. “James - please. I can bear this. If I know that the two of you are safe, I can bear this, but you must tell me -”

James reaches out to him and cups his cheek in one hand.

“I will look after her,” he promises, his voice rough with emotion. “I will keep her safe by whatever means necessary, but I won’t promise not to do anything reckless - I can’t. If it will bring you home to us, I’ll burn England to the ground. I love you far too much to -”

Thomas inhales sharply. It is not the first time he has heard those words from James but it might well be the last and he does not want it to be. He does not want to lose James, not even for an instant, and yet now, with the possibility - nay, the certainty - looming over them both -

“Say that again,” he says. He needs to hear it again - needs to hear it so many more times, enough that the words are imprinted on his memory indelibly that he might never forget the sound of James’ voice saying them. He needs -

James stops. He seems to review his words for a moment, and then he takes a deep breath. He is not a man given to overly bold declarations under normal circumstances, but this night - this night he stares at Thomas, holding his gaze without flinching, his hand still resting on Thomas’ cheek, warm and solid and reassuring.

“I love you,” he repeats. It is difficult to see in the darkened cell, and Thomas wishes that he could see James’ green eyes in this moment, more than anything. “My god, Thomas, I love you. You understand that, don’t you - I’d do anything for you. Anything but make a promise I can’t keep because if I don’t find you - if you’re gone forever, god, I don’t know what I’d -”

Footsteps sound in the corridor outside, and James starts violently.

“No,” Thomas whispers. He looks toward the door, and then back at James. “No,” he repeats. “It’s not dawn yet, they can’t -”

“It’s not even midnight yet,” James breathes. “It can’t be, look at the -” He looks to the window, to the blanket that’s been stuffed into it, and reaches up to rip it off, allowing moonlight to shine through, and onto both of their faces. “The moon’s still up,” he observes. “They can’t mean to come for us yet. It can’t be more than ten o’clock - look at the stars.”

“Well,” a voice says at the door, “I’m pleased to hear that you have not forgotten everything I taught you.”

******************************************

When this is over, Hennessey thinks, he will have a great deal to say to Thomas Hamilton.

Of necessity, he will need to apologize. He has, after all, slain the lad’s father. He does not know how the robbed rightful heir to the Earldom will feel about the matter - it is, Hennessey reflects, perfectly possible that Thomas will see fit to assault him for it - or give a sigh of relief at the news. As he looks at his son and the young lord James has fallen in love with, he is inclined to think that the latter reaction is altogether more likely. In looking at James, Hennessey himself wishes that he had taken the time to make the man’s death rather less sudden and more lingering.

“Sir?” James croaks, and Hennessey gives a nod to the orderly holding the keys. The young man fumbles with them for a moment and then inserts them in the keyhole, then stands back as Hennessey reaches forward to pull it open. He stands in the doorway for a moment, searching for words, before finally settling on something to say.

“This establishment,” he says in a voice that does not shake near as much as it should, “reeks. I have smelt bilges less offensive. If you will accompany me, gentlemen, I should like to leave as swiftly as possible. I assume I shall hear no complaints?”

He is not expecting Thomas to take five steps forward and fling his arms around Hennessey. He is not expecting Thomas’ sobs of gratitude or the wave of relief that washes over him as the younger man does so, or to find himself raising his arms to return the embrace, and yet he stands, relieved beyond measure, with Thomas Hamilton weeping into his shoulder, in the hallway of Bethlem Royal Hospital. He does not release the younger man for several moments, and when he does, he looks over his shoulder to find his own son standing, his face illuminated by the moonlight shining through the window, a blanket in his hands, looking shocked.

“Thank you,” Thomas murmurs, and gives Hennessey an extra squeeze before letting go. James hangs back, and Hennessey stands, waiting.

In later years, he thinks, he may question whether it had been truly necessary to kill Alfred Hamilton. When that question arises in his mind, he fully intends to think long and hard on this moment and the sheer disbelief and shock on James’ face when presented with the man who raised him, keys in hand, having come to release him as promised. James looks like a grim specter - a shadow of the man Hennessey raised, his face thin and bruised, clothing hanging off his frame, dirty and ragged, and Hennessey feels anger travel through him again. Yes - Alfred Hamilton had died too quickly and here, before him, stands the proof.

“James, my lad,” he says gently. “Say something, son.”

There is a moment of silence and then -

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” James says faintly. His tone is not accusing - not truly, and still Hennessey winces.

“Yes. I am sorry, James. There were a number of difficulties - unavoidable delays. Contacting you might have -”

He is surprised for the second time that night as James does the exact same thing as his lover, stepping forward and enveloping Hennessey in a hug.

“I don’t care,” he murmurs into his father’s shoulder. “You came. I’m sorry for what I said -”

“I am too, boy.” He returns the embrace with all of his strength, and James grunts, a hiss of pain escaping his lips. Hennessey releases him, looking him up and down, concerned.

“My God,” he murmurs. “You look as though you’ve spent a month in the doldrums, both of you. I expect I’ll spend the _next_ month seeing to your recovery - after, of course, we have left. Are you fit to travel?” They are still on a schedule, and time is running out. He is conscious of it - moreso, as he can hear the bells ringing the hour at St. Botolph’s. They need to be away, and swiftly.

“I can travel,” Thomas answers him. “They’ve been at James, though - he’s one walking bruise. Admiral - how in the world did you convince my father -?”

He can see the moment that James understands. Thomas, bless his gentle soul (and he is still gentle, Hennessey thinks, regardless of whatever he’s done to frighten the orderlies), does not see it, but Hennessey’s son knows him in the same way that the opposite is true, and he can see James’ eyes widen.

James has always been a clever boy - and a suspicious one. He looks at Hennessey for a moment, and Hennessey has never been more grateful than he is in the moment that his son looks at him, judges his deeds, and accepts them without a word of protest or horror.

“Sir -” he starts, and then he looks at the orderly that still stands, ready to see them to the door. He swallows hard, and then lays a hand on Thomas’ arm.

“Thomas,” he cautions. “Questions will have to wait. Is Miranda -?”

“Waiting for us,” Hennessey answers, and Thomas turns, looking between his lover and the man he calls father.

“Don’t ask,” James murmurs in his ear. “Thomas - no questions, not now. We must leave.”

Thomas looks to his lover, and then to Hennessey, and Hennessey watches his face go pale.

“I -” he starts, and then something moves over his face - a shadow of sorts. He looks at Hennessey, and Hennessey is startled to realize that he has just seen an entirely different kind of understanding pass over Thomas Hamilton’s face - not the sudden realization and shocked understanding that had crossed James’ face but just for a moment the trace of something - far darker, far more troubling. For the first time, he thinks on the orderly’s words. Something has occurred there, and Hennessey will have it out of him eventually, but for now -

“I believe that is all we require,” he says to the orderly. “Do give your employer my regards.”

With that, they are on their way out of Bedlam, and if Hennessey feels that he is walking on eggshells, he is willing to put it down to the way that the building creaks and moans along with its inmates and the way that his breath fogs the air despite being inside, and the knowledge that in another part of London, Alfred Hamilton lies dead in his own house and Hennessey cannot defend his actions save to the two men he is herding out of the building like a sheepdog with its charges, chivvying them along.

“We will be leaving directly,” he tells them. “If all has gone according to plan, your lady wife will be waiting for us at the gates. You will need those blankets - I'm sure I do not need to tell you that it is snowing.”

“Sir?” James asks, and Hennessey stops, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes?”

“If I’ve ever expressed any doubt about your sense of timing, I’d like to formally retract it.” He shoots Hennessey a weak grin, and Hennessey stops in his tracks for just a moment before finally, finally allowing himself to return the expression, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile at last after the hell of the past month.

“I merely learned from a master when to take my shot,” he says, and then they are walking out the door, down the path, and toward the waiting carriage.

*******************************************************

Later, Miranda will wonder if she has dreamt this night.

It seems surreal, somehow. She stands at the foot of the path that leads inside the gates of Bethlem, and wonders if she has at last gone mad and allowed her feet to take her to the place that she belongs, poor delusional creature that she has become. Surely, she must be imagining this night. She cannot truly be waiting here for her husband and her lover to emerge, trailing after Admiral Hennessey like a pair of ducklings. She cannot truly be waiting to see if Alfred Hamilton is dead at last. She cannot -

The doors open, and her men emerge, and she stops breathing for a moment because they are alive, and before her, and after more than a month of heartache and fear and jumping at her own shadow, she can finally see the end of the long nightmare. They are free, and her worrying is nearly _over_.

“Lady Hamilton,” Admiral Hennessey says behind them. “Some assistance may be required.”

His voice penetrates the shock that has rendered her motionless, and she moves forward. Her men are alive, yes -

And they look terrible. They are wrapped in blankets, both of them, making it hard to discern their shapes accurately, and yet -

“My God,” she murmurs. “Thomas.”

Thomas looks at her, and she can see the moment that her husband processes that she is there in front of him. He looks tired - so very tired, and the beard that obscures the lower half of his face might be attractive were he to trim it adequately but at present it looks more like the adornment of someone who truly belongs behind these walls. He is far too thin - she can see it in his wrists where they are holding the blanket about him and in the gauntness of his face.

“Miranda,” he all but croaks, and then they are moving forward toward each other, and Miranda holds her husband as he shakes. He reeks of Bethlem - his hair and clothing both, and he will need a bath as soon as may be, but he is in her arms again and none of the rest of it matters.

“It’s alright,” she soothes. “You’re safe now - both of you. James -” She looks over Thomas’ shoulder -

Her mouth drops open and she stands in the falling snow staring.

“You may burn the place to the foundation on another day,” Hennessey murmurs behind her, and she turns to look at him, startled.  

“Tell me that Alfred is dead,” she orders in a grim tone, and he nods. The gesture bolsters her, and she looks back to the second of her men.

“James,” she says, her tone gentle, and James flinches.

“Don’t,” he starts to say. “Miranda - please. I can’t -” 

He starts to raise a hand, starts to shield her from the sight of him, and she feels her heart shatter. She takes two steps forward and, without any hesitation whatsoever, takes James’ face between her hands. 

“Don’t try to hide from this,” she tells him, and sees the surprise flash through his green eyes. “Don’t try to hide from me.” She pulls gently using only the force of her two cupped hands, and brings James in for a kiss, and there is nothing gentle or pitying in it. James’ hands move - first gripping her wrists, and then, slowly, sliding up her arms until, with a gasp, Miranda breaks off the kiss, the breath all but driven from her as James catches her in a fierce hug.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into her shoulder. “We came so close to losing him - god, Miranda, you’ve no idea -”  

“We must go. Now.” Hennessey’s voice sounds from behind them, and Miranda is given no time to process the words that have just come from James’ mouth. “We must be gone from London, and quickly. The ship’s name?”  

“The _Phaeaco._ ”

Hennessey snorts.  

“I suppose we must hope the name is not prophetic. Very well. Come - into the carriage. The dock?”  

“The ship is moored by the Howland dock. We should be able to make good time.” 

“If I had the time I would make certain to give Philip his month’s wages in advance for that alone,” Hennessey murmurs.  

“I’ve already done so. Come - James, no, don’t be stubborn, let me help you in.”  

The carriage is underway moments later, and they leave Bethlem, and London, behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Phaeaco is a reference to Odysseus. Since the only thing we know of his ship is that it was Phaeacian, Phaeaco is the closest reference I could make to it.
> 
> There is now art for this chapter! The amazing @weillschmidtdoodles has done two truly awesome drawings - go check them out!
> 
> http://weillschmidtdoodles.tumblr.com/post/161906713117/i-wont-let-them-take-you-fanart-for-the


	6. Chapter 6

“What does the surgeon have to say?”

The door to the passenger cabin clicks closed behind Miranda, and she takes a deep breath to collect herself before turning to face Admiral Hennessey.

“They are resting,” she tells him. She can hear the weariness in her own voice and feel it in her bones. It has been a long day - made so, in large part, by the events of the past several hours. “He says he believes that they may both expect to make a full recovery provided they are not tormented any further. James in particular will need care, as he appears to have been -” Her voice cracks. She cannot help it - it has been threatening to do so with every word that has left her mouth since she began to relay the doctor’s report. “He has been beaten,” she tells Hennessey. “Cruelly, and often. My _God_ .” She sits down on a barrel that stands near the door, and looks up at Hennessey, all of her anger and horror showing now that she is no longer in the presence of the two men who need bolstering so very badly. “They are both half-starved, and there is swelling around a cut on Thomas’ shoulder which the doctor has asked _me_ to monitor since neither of them will allow the man to do anything they cannot see with their own eyes and I haven’t the heart to gainsay either of them.”

She scarcely recognizes her own voice now. She has thought, since Thomas and James were taken away from her, that she has known anger. That, she realizes, has been a dim cinder next to what she now feels at the memory of her men, their faces drawn, their hands trembling, their fragile composure all but breaking at the notion of facing _yet another doctor_. There are no words for the fury she feels filling her at the memory of Thomas requesting, in his quiet, firm way, that she be the only one to touch him, and that they not be separated to be examined.

She looks down at her hands. They are clenched in her lap, and if she squints at her nails, she thinks she can still see a bit of James’ blood underneath one of them. Thomas’ wounds are terrible enough in their multitude, and yet he seems to have at least benefited from the pretense agreed upon between Alfred and the staff of Bethlem that he was in every respect a patient there to be nursed back to health as if he had truly lost possession of his wits. James, though -

_He had flinched from even her touch at first, instinctively, involuntarily, when she had attempted to help him out of his hospital clothing._

_“I don’t want you to see it,” he’d told her, his voice trembling a little. “Either of you. If it looks even half as appalling as it -”  He had stopped, the words lodging in his throat as he realized how they would sound, but she knew already. As it feels, he’d almost said, and then understood that the phrase would not help his cause, and Miranda was willing to allow him a great deal but not this. Not this stubbornness that would lead to him succeeding in doing further harm to himself, as if what had been inflicted upon him were not bad enough._

_“James.” The word had come from her right, and she had looked to see her husband, his blue eyes fixed on their lover._

_“Thomas, I can’t,” James had started. There was a pleading look on his face. “She doesn’t need to see this. You don’t need -”_

_“I would hate to think,” Thomas had said slowly, deliberately, “that I had gotten these all for nothing.”_

_He held up his hands, and Miranda had stared, horrified, at the welts that ran across both palms, at the tears in his skin and the bruises that ran in a tell-tale chain-link pattern, livid and painful-looking. At her side, the ship’s surgeon had started to reach forward, his other hand patting around him unheeded for the stack of bandages, and Thomas waved him away._

_“No,” he had said, “I do not need to have them tended, focus on him. James -” His voice had turned gentle. “You know we have no interest in humiliating you, either of us. ”_

_“Let me help,” Miranda had entreated, and James had turned to her, a helpless, terrified expression flitting across his face for a moment._

_“You’ll hate the sight of it - of me,” he had said, and Miranda felt her heart break._

_“Never,” she had said, taking hold of his hands, and James had looked her in the eye and then slowly, hesitantly, reached for the bottom of the too-large shirt that they had forced upon him in Bethlem, and begun to lift it._

Miranda can still feel her stomach turning. It had been every bit as bad as James had feared, and it had been all she could do not to show him the fury she had felt at the sight. Thomas had caught her eye from his position across the room as she had looked at James’ abused back and she had swallowed hard, and closed her eyes, and seen her husband do the same, an oath issuing from his lips. Even now, removed from the cabin, knowing James to be sleeping, his wounds bandaged and his ragged prison uniform replaced with something fit for human habitation, she can feel the anger turning her blood to fire. She can feel her own hands clenching in her lap, and she looks at Hennessey to find that anger reflected on his face in the set of his jaw and the way his brow furrows ever so slightly. He is, she realizes, her father-in-law, in a way, and she has never expected to feel any kind of relief at having a conversation with anyone related to her in that way but she does now, seeing her own emotions so closely mirrored.

“I cannot say that I am surprised,” Hennessey sighs, and shakes his head, sitting down next to Miranda. She is surprised to see that he has changed sometime in the past several hours, out of his uniform coat and into a brown coat and waistcoat that are utterly foreign on him. Still - she is too tired to wonder where he has gotten the clothing - too tired and too furious, and the result is the same feeling she has lived with for the past weeks, lingering even though her husbands have been returned to her.

“I had hoped that this might be over,” she murmurs quietly. “When you took it into your head to see to Alfred, I don’t know what I expected, but I look at them now and I cannot help but wish that I had wielded the knife myself. They are both so injured and I haven’t the faintest idea of how to begin helping them to regain themselves now that they are free.”

Hennessey closes his eyes and rests his still-bewigged head against the wall behind them.

“I am very much afraid,” he says quietly, “that it will be up to them to tell us.”

*********************************************

He does not ever want to be cold again.

It is the first thought that registers in James’ mind - the first thing to drift to the surface when he wakes. He is firmly ensconced under a blanket - a soft, warm blanket, one that smells good, and for a moment he simply pulls it closer to him, closing his eyes and allowing it to ride up over his nose. He is warm. Wherever he is, whatever this dream is, this much is certain - James does not want to wake from it, not when he can smell the scent of the cedar chest that this blanket has been stored in, when he can feel its softness against his bare feet, and speaking of feeling things -

He shifts experimentally, and inhales sharply. Something hurts - something stings abominably, and surely that cannot be part of any dream, can it? He opens his eyes -

“James?” Thomas’ voice is sleepy, but concerned, and James remembers. He is not in Bedlam, and this is not a dream. He swings his legs over the edge of the hammock that he has been sleeping in, and gives a shake of his head.

“I’m alright,” he tells his lover, and sees Thomas’ blond head lower again, snuggling into his own warm blanket. He is alright, he thinks - except in the respect that he is awake, and he is not sure why. James stands, and bites back a curse at the pain that goes lancing through his back. There are still wounds there - ones that will leave scars, he has no doubt. He has not had it in him before now to worry about such things but now he cannot help but imagine the horrifying reminders that Bedlam has left on his skin, and he is suddenly grateful that Thomas is asleep and that James is wearing a new, unsullied nightshirt courtesy of Miranda. He would not like Thomas or Hennessey to see what they have done to him - not properly, not yet, not until James has come to terms with it himself, and is it him, or has it gotten colder in this cabin?

He runs a hand over the cloth. He is clean, and warm, and safe, and his hands are shaking. He clenches his fists, and feels the wounds on his arms throb, and he can feel his breath shorten - can feel his heart begin to pound, and he is not certain why, but he can hear himself begin to wheeze. He sits back down abruptly, the hammock beneath him swaying slightly as he rests his weight upon it. He cannot feel his fingers, suddenly - he can see them, balled in the fabric of the hammock on either side of him, but he cannot feel them, and he does not know what is happening, but the chills that are racing down his spine are like lightning striking him, and he gasps, opens his mouth, tries to make a sound, and finds that he cannot. He reaches out - blindly, unfeeling, unthinking, and his hand collides with a bottle on the nearby table. It falls to the floor with a clatter, and behind him, James can hear Thomas thrash awake, a startled gasp coming from him as he does so.

“James?” he asks, and this time James does not attempt to reassure him. He lets out a croak, and then Thomas is at his side.

“T-Thomas,” he manages to choke out, and Thomas looks at him with alarm.

“James - Jesus, you’re white as a sheet. Miranda!”

********************************************

Miranda is moving almost before the cry finishes echoing from inside the cabin, and the fear in her eyes is enough to bring Hennessey to his feet with her. More than that - he can hear the fear in Thomas’ voice - fear he has not heard from the younger man yet, and it sets his heart racing. There can be only one cause for that tone - one reason for him to sound so utterly terrified.

“James.” They say it together, and then they are moving, opening the door. Hennessey looks toward the two figures sitting in the hammock - sees the pallor of James’ face, the way that his chest heaves up and down, sees the sweat beading on his forehead -

And sags in relief.

“Oh thank Christ,” he murmurs, and Miranda gives him a horrified look.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Thomas’ voice, sharp and frightened, comes from next to James, and Hennessey meets his eyes.

“I am thanking God Almighty that I am not walking into this cabin to find either one of you suddenly dying," Hennessey answers crisply. James gives him an incredulous look. “Breathe, boy,” Hennessey instructs. “Yes, I know, it feels as though your lungs don’t work but you cannot keep gasping as you are. Slowly, lad - slowly.”

"You know what this is?" Miranda asks, and Hennessey nods.

"I do. Thomas -" It does not register with either one of them that it is the first time he has spoken the younger man's given name, the urgency of the moment forcing them to bypass all recognition of such, "I will require you to either move away or at the very least keep your movements steady and all discussion to a minimum. James -" He crosses the room, stopping several feet away from his son, and kneels such that he can meet James' eyes without forcing either of them into an awkward position. "James - you are not dying. Look at me, son - focus on me."

He has seen this before - so many times before. It is the same story the world over, and he curses himself for not expecting it - for not preparing James for it, for not warning Thomas and Miranda that it is a possibility, even as he goes through the familiar motions. This, at least, is not an unfamiliar battleground - instead, it is an enemy that he has been fighting in his crew since he first accepted an officer’s commission, and the sheer familiarity of the action is almost soothing in its way. 

"James," he says softly, "tell me where we are." 

His son's eyes focus on him and there - there is the realization, there is the understanding, and he sees James relax by a fraction. 

" _Phaeaco_ ," James manages to gasp out. "Heading out of London." His son knows what this is too - he has ridden out his fair share of these with his comrades, experienced one of his own some time ago, and Hennessey is grateful to see that he has not forgotten the experience.

Hennessey nods.

"Yes. Are you in pain?”

James closes his eyes, and Hennessey can see the effort it is taking to process the question. After a moment, James shakes his head.

“Not really,” he answers. He is still visibly shaking, his breaths shaking even as he tries to regulate them, and he is still clutching the hammock, white-knuckled. This is going to take time, then - well, no getting around it, and he may as well use the moment as they used to when James was younger.

“I am glad to hear it,” Hennessey tells him. “Now - why don’t you tell me, as calmly as possible, why it is that this ship cannot possibly expect to make port on anything resembling an acceptable schedule, given the knowledge that the captain is an ass and the sailing master a cautious old woman who has never seen a beach he actually liked for careening in all his life?”

*********************************************

_Two hours later:_

 

“-and that is why I never wish to catch you using an anchor to bring the ship around while still under half sail,” Hennessey finishes quietly. James has calmed, at last - his breathing has become more even, his eyes have started to close, and his hands have lost their death-grip on the hammock and on Thomas, who is still sitting at his lover’s side, his hand still stroking up and down James’ right arm, his eyes trained on Hennessey, dares to breathe a sigh of relief.

“James,” Thomas says quietly, and James’ eyes open again to look at him. “Would you like to get some sleep now?”

James nods wearily.

“I’m sorry,” he says roughly. “I don’t know what the hell brought that on, but I -”

Thomas can still feel small shudders going down James' spine - aftershocks of the upset that had seen him gasping for air and shaking for the past two hours, and he rubs his back again, his fingers curling and tightening his grip ever so slightly around James' shoulders.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he murmurs, and looks up at Hennessey. "Admiral - "

The older man offers him a wry smile.

"I imagine you would appreciate a few moments alone," he excuses himself. "I will see you all in the morning."

He gives James a smile, Thomas and Miranda a nod, and then he is heading toward the door, his movements a touch stiff from kneeling, Thomas realizes, and feels more than a little guilty. It should have been him, he thinks, talking James through this. He might at least have the decency left to say something to Hennessey - to thank him, perhaps, or find words that are not hysterical. It is more than he has managed with the older man yet tonight, and in truth he does have much to say to him, if he can manage to retrieve his powers of speech from the depths to which it seems they have sunk sometime during his stay in Bethlem. There are questions to which he would have answers, tonight if possible, for he has the terrible feeling that if they are not addressed swiftly, he and his lover’s father will spend the rest of their lives skirting this night in their conversations, allowing it to become the unspoken tension in the air for all their discussions going forward. Thomas has lived with that kind of tension once before. It has infected his every conversation with his own father since he was fourteen. He bears the scars of the results on his body, and the very thought of allowing such a thing to fester between himself and Hennessey - the thought of bearing the weight of it, of wondering when the sword will fall on them all again for the rest of his days - is enough to induce a spark of his own panic that forms a lump in his throat and sends a shiver down his spine.

It is not rational. He knows it; indeed, he is beginning to understand just what it is that Bethlem has done to him and he does not like it, not one bit. He looks to James. His lover, he thinks, still looks shaken, and tired, and very much in need of comfort now that Thomas is in a position to provide it. He wishes to stay - wishes to cling to James until he has convinced himself that no one is coming to take either one of them away again, but he fears that the process is going to take rather longer than a single night - for all of them. A weight settles on the hammock on James’ other side, and he looks to find Miranda looking back at him.

“I’ll stay with him,” she tells him quietly. James looks up, startled, his eyes finding Thomas’.

“You’re leaving?” he asks incredulously, and Thomas shakes his head.

“No - not unless you tell me you’re comfortable with it.”

His fear, Thomas has decided, can go hang. His lover needs him - that is the beginning and end of this discussion, and after the night they have had, he has no intention of seeing James hurt in the slightest. His lover’s green eyes still look weary, and there is a tremor in one hand that suggests that the small fit of panic that has struck him is not the only reason he is shaking. Thomas reaches over, finally allowing his hand to move from James’ back to his lover’s hair, carding through the short strands, and James leans into the touch gratefully.

“I can’t lose you tonight,” he murmurs. “I know it’s ridiculous, you’re not going anywhere, but I -” He cuts himself off roughly, and Thomas leans in to place a kiss on James’ temple.

“It was too close a thing,” he agrees. That part has not sunk in fully yet - just how close Thomas has come to becoming property, how close they have all come to being split apart. The thought sends a shiver down his spine nevertheless, and he feels his wife’s hand squeeze his shoulder from behind James.

“Tell me,” she encourages, and Thomas swallows hard. He can feel the ship swaying beneath them, and he takes a moment to simply be thankful that with every moment that passes, he is further away from the place that had come so close to breaking both of them.

“If we move these blankets to the floor,” James says, “we can all sleep together.” He is looking at Thomas, now, weary but understanding of his lover’s silence. “Thomas - you can take the middle this time.”

He can hear what James is saying beneath it. _No one is coming to take you away except by going through me first,_ his lover’s tone tells him, and Thomas takes a deep breath. The reassurance is meant for James’ peace of mind as much as his own, he thinks, but he will take it nonetheless. He has come too close, tonight - too close to something he can hardly now bear to think of. He needs their warmth - needs the comfort James offers, more now than he has ever needed it in his life.

“You don’t mind?” he asks, and James shakes his head.

“No.” He stands, and they set about turning the floor into a makeshift bed, which Thomas climbs into first. He can feel James and Miranda shift on either side of him, and then he is warm, ensconced firmly in his lovers’ embrace, firmly home at last.

“You are safe now,” Miranda tells him, and he nods wearily.

“Yes,” he agrees. He is tired - so very tired, and he settles down into the blankets, allowing the softness of them and the blessedly clean smell of Miranda’s hair and James’ solid presence at his back to lull him to sleep even as he hears his lovers’ low murmurs on either side of him.

************************************************************************

“There were orders given,” James says softly. “We were to be moved - I was to be released, but Thomas -”

Their lover lies asleep between them. James’ voice is quiet - a rumble that barely registers atop the squeaking of the ship as it takes them further away from London.

“Move you?” Miranda says, her voice full of quiet alarm. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning.” The tone of James’ voice is heavy now. “They were taking him to Florida. There is a plantation there - they planned to sell him so he could be their goddamned slave. If you hadn’t come when you did -” He shakes his head. "I don't know what might have happened."

Miranda gasps softly, and James gives her a grim look.

“I’m certain you’ve a tale for me,” he says. “In case you were wondering if you did what was right - if you were in any way feeling guilty about Alfred -”

Miranda shakes her head.

“No,” she tells him, and he stops. Miranda looks at him, and there is something vulnerable in her eyes, in the way that she looks at him. “I am not sorry,” she repeats, and there is sorrow in her voice. “I wish that I could say that I regret it, but I do not. Make of that what you will.”

He looks at her for a long moment, and Miranda shifts, one hand playing with Thomas’ hair nervously.

“James, for God’s sake say something,” she urges after a moment, and it is all James can do to simply rise up on one elbow and extend one hand, cupping her cheek. He leans in, and Miranda melts into his kiss, relieved, a small sound escaping her mouth that is almost a sob.

“I nearly lost you,” she murmurs, and James allows his forehead to rest against hers the same way he has done with Thomas in the past.

“We’re here,” he reassures. “Miranda - I’m sorry. What we did - ”

“It was selfish, and stupid, and if you ever do it to me again I am absolutely certain the Admiral will agree to tan both your hides for me,” she says, and James nods.

“I know,” he answers, and feels Miranda raise her hand to his face, her fingers carding through the short strands of his hair, and for a moment they simply breathe as one, safe and together and working toward becoming whole again.

“Hennessey looks odd without the uniform,” James says at last, and Miranda laughs.

“I agree,” she answers, and James turns his gaze toward the cabin door.

“I should go and say something to him,” he says, and Miranda shakes her head.

“No,” she answers, and James frowns.

“Miranda - the man gave up everything for me. For us. Unless I’m much mistaken, he committed murder to see us freed. I cannot simply ignore that.”

“I'm not asking that you ignore it,” Miranda says. “I believe the Admiral elected to give us some privacy for a reason, though. Speak to him in the morning. For now, let him grieve.”

James looks at her, and suddenly, he cannot help but notice the dark circles beneath her eyes. She is exhausted, he realizes - as exhausted as he himself is at present, and yet here she is, talking him through the aftermath of the worst ordeal to which he has ever been subject, as if she does not long to put her head down and sleep herself, and he nods, ashamed at his own shortsightedness.

“You’re right,” he tells her, and he is even more ashamed at the look of surprise that runs across her features at his admission. He leans forward, kisses her forehead, and then draws back. “We should all get some rest. I’m sorry.” He shifts backward, and she smiles, relieved. “You see, I’m learning,” he murmurs, and hears her give a short snort of laughter before he settles into the blankets.

“Goodnight, James,” she says softly, and then there is only silence, and the creaking of the boards, and the sound of Thomas’ gentle snoring.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @bereweillschmidtdoodles has done art for this chapter! For your viewing pleasure and heartache - malnourished Thomas just post-Bedlam: 
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/p/BalklBpjhEs/


	7. Chapter 7

_Epilogue:_

 

They make landfall in Nassau two months later. 

Hennessey, James thinks, has hidden depths to him, and those depths, apparently, include worming his way into the captain’s confidence such that the blasted fool actually begins to take his advice on sailing the ship. It’s just as well - the man James calls father had spent the first two weeks of this voyage variously glaring at the rigging, muttering about the sailing master, and generally stalking about the ship as if it were his own, hands behind his back, restless as hell and grouchy with it. James might have teased him about it - except that he has spent at least part of the trip doing the same thing himself, much to Thomas’ and Miranda’s amusement. 

In truth, he supposes, they are all restless. It’s only to be expected - none of them, after all, have the faintest clue what they are going to do when they arrive. Well - save Thomas. 

He is standing at the railing, his blond hair ruffled by the wind, looking for all the world as if he has never known greater joy than at this moment. His eyes are closed at the moment, his face covered in a light layer of moisture from the spray blowing over them all, and James cannot help but smile at the sight. Thomas looks well - his skin is becoming tanned from the sun now that they are away from England’s dreary winter skies, and the flesh that had fallen away from him in Bedlam has made a return.

It is a blessed relief. They have come so close to losing him - far, far too close, and James still wonders on some days whether they have not truly lost some essential bit of Thomas, just as he is quite certain that there are days when his family wonders if they have not lost some essential bit of  _ him. _ He has no standing from which to force the issue, and yet - he cannot help but worry. 

“You’re brooding,” Miranda says from behind him, and James turns.

“You do the same,” he answers, and Miranda frowns.

“I do not brood,” she informs him. “I ponder. It’s altogether more ladylike.” He lets out a huff of breath - a laugh, and she gives him a smile.

“Nassau,” he says, gesturing to the island before them. “What do you make of it?” 

She turns her attention to the rail, looking outward toward the beach - the trees in the distance, the rough-hewn nature of the town - and purses her lips.

“It’s very… green,” she says at last, and James grimaces. 

“I know it isn’t much,” he says.

“But it could be more,” she answers, and he looks at her, startled. “I chose our destination, if you recall,” she says. “Or rather, the Admiral’s man, Philip, did.” He looks at her, frown forming again. “I approved his selection,” she says quietly. “Nassau may look rather rough, but so does a gemstone before it’s been cut. We’ll make do - the three of us.” 

Thomas turns from the railing, looking back at his lovers.

“James,” he calls. “Stop brooding and come join me. Miranda, you as well - don’t you want a better look at our new home?” 

They give each other a look - half amusement and half helpless fondness, and then they go to join him at the rail, waiting for the ship to finish coming into the bay, and their new lives to begin.

********************************************************

“They have no shipyard,” Hennessey observes in an aside to James as their launch takes them to shore. “One might think the last governor could have managed that much, at least!”

“I’m fairly sure it burned during the last Spanish raid, if they ever had one,” James answers, and Hennessey snorts. 

“No dry dock, fort in bloody awful condition - and we considered this a threat?” he asks, and James silently agrees with him. 

“The island’s in disrepair now,” he agrees. “Still - Thomas and Miranda and I have been talking -”

“Hush,” Hennessey cautions, and James takes his point - now is not the time to discuss the overthrow of the island’s leadership, or the goals they have in mind for the place.

England has thrown them out, but if there is one thing they are all resolved upon, it is that they are going to make her regret that.

_ Twelve hours later: _

Thomas wakes with a jerk.

It takes him only a moment to ascertain where he is, this time. He is relieved at that much, at least. The first time he had woken from a nightmare after the asylum, it had taken him perhaps ten to remember - ten horrible minutes of being utterly disoriented, his heart still pounding, the nightmare still clinging to him until Miranda’s voice had penetrated the fog and James’ gentle reassurances had brought him back to himself. He is getting better at this - slowly, but surely, week by week - he is learning to live with what has been done to him.

He sits up, surprised to find that his wife and their lover are still asleep. They have not stirred, for once, despite Thomas’ fitful sleeping pattern, and he is glad to see it. They have all been torn from their rest far too often of late - the past two months in particular.

It has been two months since Bedlam. The knowledge seems - strange, somehow, and yet here he sits, on one side of James, Miranda lying on James’ other side with her arm thrown over him, and it has been two months since they escaped the madhouse. Two months without being beaten or starved or injured in any way, and yet -

Thomas shakes his head. The nightmare he has just had frustrates him, more than anything. He is tired - so very tired, and he knows that James and Miranda are the same. James keeps waking with a shout on his lips, arms flailing - there have been one or two close calls, until Thomas and Miranda learned not to stand within swinging range as they try to wake him. Miranda, too, has woken more than once - unlike her men, she wakes sobbing, and it hurts Thomas’ heart to recall the wrenching, horrible sound of his wife’s cries. As for Thomas himself-

He curls his hands. The bruises and cuts have healed. There is no trace of what he has done in order to protect James any longer, save in his own mind, and he is thoroughly irritated with himself, now - tired of the nightmares, and the way his hands ache sometimes in the mornings from the way he clenches them in the night, now. He is tired - so very tired, and yet - 

He shoves himself to his feet. This maudlin replaying of the thing that haunts his dreams will get him nowhere. He retrieves his shoes from where they have been discarded at the foot of their bed, and finds his shirt - lost the night before when they had collapsed into one another so readily, his lips finding James’ and Miranda entwining herself around both of them. They are covered, he is almost amused to find, in their own discarded clothing as much as in the blankets - they had thrown a significant portion of it onto the bedding and simply crawled under the covers when they finished, sated and utterly exhausted. 

He stretches and gives a wince. They have been perhaps over enthusiastic in their passions. His legs still feel more than a little shaky, and there is a kink in his back from the amount of time he has spent with it bowed at an odd angle, and yet he does not regret a thing. It is not the first time since Bedlam that they have been able to fall into bed with one another in this way, but it is the first time that their accommodations have not gotten in the way of their pleasure significantly, and he remembers with a small smile the muffled sounds he had drawn from James, and that both James and Miranda had managed to pry from his own lips. They are being cautious, still - wringing cries from one another that are quickly cut off, sighs instead of groans (although Thomas is beginning to rethink that, too - arriving in Nassau has been quite an eye-opener), but at long last, it is beginning to feel as if they are in tune with one another again - as if they are beginning to heal. James spends less time hesitating before removing his shirt and only lets out a small, shuddering breath occasionally when Thomas or Miranda reach out to touch his naked back. Miranda gets up to check the lock on the door only once before bed, and Thomas has gone so far as to have several of his worse scars tattooed over. He feels better for it - his skin is his own again, unrecognizable to the men who had set about assaulting his body with such abandon. As to Admiral Hennessey - 

Thomas does not feel he knows the man very well, but he knows enough to understand that finding him sitting alone in the largely abandoned tap room of the inn, staring seemingly unseeing at the bottom of his empty mug, is very possibly not a good sign.

“Ad -” he starts, and then corrects himself. “Sir?” he asks, and Hennessey looks up. A slight smile crosses his face but does not reach his eyes, and Thomas takes a deep breath. He has been dreading this conversation. It has been coming, but somehow until this point, they have managed to avoid it. No more, apparently. 

“Thomas.” Hennessey greets him in a weary-sounding tone, and motions for him to sit. It is a surprise - they have not spoken much on the way here, preferring, Thomas thinks, to allow one another some measure of space and peace. He has not known, before now, how to approach the subject he feels he must - how to apologize, and apologize he must, surely.

“Sit down, son,” Hennessey offers, and Thomas starts.

“I’m -” he starts, and Hennessey snorts.

“You are my son-in-law in all but law, and I see little point in splitting hairs,” he says. “Sit down, or stand - whichever pleases you, but if it’s all the same I would prefer not to put a crick in my neck looking at you. Like staring up the mainmast trying to spot seagulls,” he mutters, and Thomas cannot help it - he cracks a small smile, and does as Hennessey asks, sitting down across from the older man. Hennessey grants him a brief, small smile, and then stares past him for a moment. Thomas turns in his seat, wondering what has caught Hennessey’s attention, but sees only two men sitting in the corner, one all but in the other’s lap, and he turns back to Hennessey with a questioning expression and a sinking sensation in his gut. 

It cannot be like this. Not now. Not again. Not this disapproval, this condemnation. Please God - does he truly have to go through this again? 

“I had thought -” he starts, and then steels himself. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Hennessey’s gaze redirects itself to him sharply, something akin to shock moving across the older man’s face.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, and Thomas attempts not to clench his fists. The older man’s tone sets his nerves on edge, and he mentally braces for what he is certain will be a verbal blow.

“I am apologizing,” he says softly, “for ruining your career. I am apologizing for forcing you to intervene in my affairs - for dragging you along with me to this place where you are clearly not comfortable. I am sorry. I can’t change it now, but I thought you should hear it nonetheless. If you must blame one of us, blame me, though - I don’t think James could stand to be cast aside again.” 

He has said it. The searing censure he has expected for two months has not come yet, but it must - it  _ must _ be waiting in the wings, and Thomas would rather get it out of his way now than later. He knows tension. He knows what it feels like when an upbraiding awaits him, and -

He can take it better than his lover. He has done so before - will do so again, if necessary. He meets Hennessey’s gaze, willing the defiance with which he had faced his father to come to him-

And is shocked when he finds that the older man is staring at him, surprise on his lined face, eyebrows drawn together not in anger but in confusion.

“You are apologizing - for having the temerity to have been savaged by your own father and taken to the madhouse?” 

The incredulity in Hennessey’s voice is sobering - and reassuring, and Thomas truly has no idea how he is to respond.

“I - yes, I suppose so,” he answers, his voice shaking only a little. “I - had I been more careful - had we all been more cautious -”

“Pig shit,” Hennessey says succinctly, and Thomas gapes.

“What?” 

“It is the most foul-smelling substance I can think of, much like the self-loathing, fearful nonsense your vile toad of a father has managed to drill into your head,” Hennessey answers, and then Thomas is being enveloped in an embrace, and he cannot quite hear at the moment, his heartbeat is thumping in his own ears too loudly, and he can feel his arms lifting to return the embrace as his father-in-law holds tight to him, hand rubbing up and down Thomas’ back briskly, once, twice, thrice, and then he is pulling away, his hands still on Thomas’ shoulders, his gaze assessing as he looks Thomas in the eye and then up and down.

“You’ve not been eating enough,” Hennessey observes, disapproval in his tone, and Thomas -

He has never in his life, he realizes, truly had a father, and is this what it feels like? 

“You should be furious at me,” he says, shocked and shaky, and Hennessey shakes his head. 

“I was incensed,” he says, “for all of four days when this began. Will that suffice to assuage your guilt?” There is a gentle sort of concern and even exasperation in his voice, but none of the acerbic sarcasm Thomas has come to expect when he has failed - none of the scorching disappointment, and he cannot hope, cannot allow himself to do so. He shakes his head - attempts to pull away, and is caught gently by his sleeves.

“I nearly killed an orderly,” he confesses, and sees Hennessey’s eyes widen a hair. “I wrapped my chains around his neck and squeezed, and I - God help me I am not sorry, although I suppose I’m glad not to have his death on my conscience. If you’re going to pardon me for my trespasses against  _ you _ , surely you cannot pardon me for being the sort of monster-”

“Who would kill another man to safeguard one you care for?” Hennessey asks, and raises an eyebrow, and Thomas can feel his face redden with embarrassment. 

“I -” He flounders, and Hennessey simply gives him a reproving look.

“You are not a monster, or if you are, then I am a worse, and I can promise you that I do not regret my monstrosity,” he says after a moment. “What I have done, I have done for James, and for you, and for Miranda, and if I now find myself at odds and ends it is my own doing.” 

He does not, Thomas thinks, look reassured at his own words. He looks lost, rather, and as if to prove it, he allows his gaze to go round the room again as if looking for inspiration.

“Seen worse, I suppose,” he mutters, and then he looks back to Thomas. “I will make of this whatever I may make of it,” he says, “although -” He stops, seeming to search for words. He looks tired, Thomas thinks - bone tired, and his voice sounds weary, now that Thomas is no longer looking for the anger in it. “I confess myself somewhat out of my depth,” he says at last, and Thomas cannot help but wince. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and Hennessey shakes his head. 

“Don’t be,” he says quietly. “Go back to bed, Thomas. We’ve a long day ahead of us, all, and I suspect you will need… your -”

He stops abruptly, and stands, and Thomas stares at him, startled. 

“Sir?” 

Hennessey is not looking at him - instead, he is staring, spellbound, across the room, and Thomas cannot spot what has brought his father-in-law up out of his chair, but Hennessey’s brow is furrowed in disbelief, his hand where it rests on the table trembling, and when he speaks again, he does not look at Thomas, as if afraid to look away.

“My God,” he says in a choked voice. “It cannot be. He cannot be here. It’s not -” He stops, and whatever he sees seems to knock the breath back into his lungs. He straightens, if at all possible, and then looks back down to Thomas. 

“Remind me,” he says distinctly, voice suddenly stronger, eyes bright suddenly, “to thank you for your damned foolish idealism that brought me here.” 

“Sir,” Thomas protests. “Admiral,” he hisses, but Hennessey does not explain - simply begins to move across the room, and Thomas stands, stares after him, cannot see among the sailors that have just come in through the door what has -

“Hal.” 

The name sounds amid the sudden hustle and bustle, and Thomas can hear the tremble in it if no one else can. He can hear, too, when the tavern goes quieter - and the moment that another voice answers.

“Eirnin?” 

The man that speaks is stoutish, with a bald head and mutton chops and a look on his face to match the tremble in Hennessey’s voice, and Thomas suddenly understands. He knows, too, what is about to happen - what must, and he is not disappointed.

*********************************************************************

“I took your advice,” Hennessey says, and the words come out of his mouth as if from a stranger. He does not know, quite, who has uttered them - they are shaking too much to have belonged to him, surely - not E. Alexander Hennessey, Admiral of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy and resident stiff, unfeeling superior officer?

He thinks - deep down in his soul - he thinks they may just possibly have been spoken by a young man stood at the London docks twenty years ago watching his lover sail away on a ship bound for this place, and that man has never, ever belonged to England.

He is standing here in civilian clothing. He has jettisoned his hat, his wig, his uniform, his dignity as an officer - all the trappings of that life, and he thinks - 

E. Alexander Hennessey is a prig, and he does not want him, not anymore. He is not certain when he stopped being that man, but he knows that London may have him - or Portsmouth, or whatever damnable piece of English soil had spawned that piece of him to begin with. He does not _want_ it, he will not _have_ it - 

He has come here to start over and he means to do it. He opens his mouth to try again, and while he still does not know his own voice, he thinks it sounds more familiar this time.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “that it’s taken so long.”

The words may have been uttered by a stranger but Hal Gates seems to recognize them - and him, and isn’t that a blessed relief after all these years? 

“Eirnin?” he repeats, softer this time, and it has been twenty long years, but the name on Hal’s lips still goes straight through him.

He nods.

“Hal,” he answers. “Hal, I -” he starts, and then he cannot continue, and it doesn’t matter, because Hal has always been the practical one of the two of them. 

“Christ,” he mutters. “Dear fucking  _ Christ _ -”

It is odd, Hennessey thinks. A moment ago, he had been sitting with his son-in-law, his career thrown to the dogs, his life in tatters, wondering where he might get a stronger drink, his life over in his own eyes. A moment ago, he had had no idea his life was about to begin again, and now -

Hal, he thinks, smells and tastes exactly the way he always has, and Hennessey still feels safe in his arms after all this time.

“I thought you were dead,” Gates says as he pulls back, and Hennessey shakes his head.

“Who the hell gave you that idea?” he asks, and Gates raises his head, looking him up and down, eyes still a bit wild.

“You’re here,” he accuses. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Hennessey laughs a bit shakily.

“The answer may shock you more than my presence,” he answers. “Are you sure you wish to hear it?” 

Gates’ eyes darken a fraction, and he puts a hand on either of Hennessey’s shoulders. 

“I want to hear a lot more than that,” he says. “Eirnin - are you staying? If you’re not - I don’t - I _can’t_ -”

“I am staying,” Hennessey assures. “If, that is, you will have an old fool that gave up everything twice over for the ones he…” He stops. He cannot say that - not here, not in a public tavern - 

There are two men already snogging in a corner, and he can absolutely say it. 

“The ones he loved,” he finishes, and sees Hal’s eyes go wide, right before he leans forward.

“I’ll have you,” he murmurs, “if you’ll have a pirate that should have stayed the fuck home twenty years ago.” 

He leans in without waiting for Hennessey’s answer, and -

He has come a long way from home only to find himself right back where he started, Hennessey thinks, and what is it he had told Miranda? 

Sometimes it is all about knowing when to take one’s shot. 

**************************************************

“Where have you been?” Miranda asks when Thomas returns to their room. James, bless him, is only just waking up - his hair, she thinks, is adorably hedgehog-like, this short and this early in the morning, and she reaches over to help him smooth it, running her hand through it and garnering a small wince as she hits a snarl.

“Apologies, dearest,” she murmurs, and James smiles, and then looks up at Thomas, and a look of pleased confusion crosses his visage.

“What on earth has got you looking like that?” he asks, and Miranda looks up to find that her husband is grinning - truly, properly grinning, no trace of anything darker on his face, looking for all the world as if he is trying to keep from bursting out laughing, and she does not know what has put him in such a mood, but she blesses whatever it is.

“I’ve been downstairs to speak with Hennessey,” he says, and she blinks in surprise.

“Hennessey?” James asks. “But I thought you were -”

Thomas shakes his head.

“Your father,” he says, flopping down next to them on the bed, “is a good man. I have no idea why I was so worried.” He smiles at both of them, contented and untroubled, and she exchanges a look with James - one of profound relief, because this particular guilt has been eating away at Thomas, she knows.

“He seems to have left your head remarkably intact,” James observes wryly. “I told you he’s not an ogre.”

“Yes, yes - you were right,” Thomas answers, fond exasperation coloring his tone just a bit. “I’ve been a bit foolish - I don’t suppose there’s any helping that. In any case - I’ve spoken with him.”

“He’s on board?” James asks, and Thomas shakes his head.

“What?” Miranda asks, and Thomas turns toward her, still grinning.

“I had intended to discuss the proposal with him,” he says. “Truly, I had, but -” 

He shakes his head, and then suddenly he is laughing, and James and Miranda stare at him.

“What the hell are you -?” James starts, and Thomas turns to him.

“James,” he says. “You remember how very careful we’ve been since we arrived here?”

James nods.

“Yes. I don’t see any point in inviting trouble,” he starts, and Thomas shakes his head again. 

“I don’t think that’s ever going to be a problem again,” he says. He grins wide, and then with remarkable energy, he all but springs up off the bed, and moves toward the door, beckoning to James and Miranda. They follow him out -

And Miranda cannot help but laugh at the sight that meets her eyes on the floor below as she looks over the balcony railing.

“Is that -?” James asks in a strangled tone, and Thomas grins.

“I think we might just possibly be safe,” he deadpans, and Miranda wonders whether James might, at any point today, be able to look away again.

“They seem to know each other,” she says, attempting not to giggle, and James turns his gaze to her, confusion in his gaze, mixed with surprise, and even a bit of relief. 

“You don’t say,” he says a bit weakly, and then returns his gaze to the floor below. “Did he -?” he starts, and Thomas puts a hand on his arm.

“He addressed him as Hal,” he says. “I don’t suppose he ever mentioned -?” 

James shakes his head.

“No,” he answers. “Although - then again -” He frowns. “Perhaps?” he says, and Thomas is trying so hard not to laugh, as is Miranda, and after a moment, James slumps weakly into a chair. 

“Welcome to Nassau,” he says after a moment, a smile working its way onto his face. “He didn’t waste any time, did he?” He’s smiling wider, now, relieved and elated and confused all at the same time. 

“Indeed,” Thomas says - and then reaches over to kiss him, and James permits it, because who in the hell is going to mind here, apparently?

“There is one downside to this,” he says after a moment, still looking pleasantly dazed. 

“What’s that?” Thomas asks. 

“That meeting about taking over the island and kicking Teach off is going to have to wait until later.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! It's really actually done! I know it's been forever - I apologize, but I hope this has lived up to everyone's expectations. I could not have written this last without the lovely, incomparable Penflicks - thank you, darling, I hope this makes you smile!


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